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Famous  Paintings 


BOOKS   BY   MISS   SINGLETON 

Turrets,  Towers,  and  Temples.      Great  Buildings  of  the 

World  Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Great  Pictures.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Wonders  of  Nature.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Romantic    Castles    and    Palaces.      Described    by    Great 

Writers. 
Famous  Paintings.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Historic  Buildings.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Famous  Women.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Great  Portraits.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Historic    Buildings    of    America.     Described   by    Great 

Writers. 
Historic  Landmarks   of   America.     Described  by   Great 

Writers. 
Great    Rivers     of    the    World.       Described    by    Great 

Writers. 
Famous  Cathedrals.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Holland.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Paris.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
London.      Described  by  Great  Writer 
Russia.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Japan.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Venice.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Rome.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Germany.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Switzerland.      Described  by  Great  Writers. 
Turkey   and  the  Balkan   States.      Described  by   Great 

Writers. 
Love  in  Literature  and  Art. 
The  Golden  Rod  Fairy  Book. 
The  Wild  Flower  Fairy  Book. 

Dutch  New  York.      Manners  and  Customs  of  New  Am- 
sterdam in  the  Seventeenth  Century. 
A  Guide  to  the  Opera. 
A  Guide  to  Modern  Opera. 


THE    HOLY    FAMILY    (THE    PEARL). 


Famous   Paintings 


As  Seen  and  Described 
by      Famous     Writers 

EDITED   AND  TRANSLATED 

By  ESTHER    SINGLETON 

AUTHOR  OF  "TURRETS,  TOWERS  AND  TEMPLES,"  "GREAT 
PICTURES,"  "  WONDERS  OF  NATURE,"  "  ROMANTIC  CASTLES 
AND  PALACES,"  "  PARIS,"  "  LONDON,"  "  LOVE  IN  LITERA- 
TURE AND  ART,"  "A  GUIDE  TO  THE  OPERA,"  AND  TRANS- 
LATOR  OF  "THE   MUSIC   DRAMAS  OF  RICHARD   WAGNER " 

With  Numerous  Illustrations 


f|? 


NHW   YORK 

DODD.  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

1909 


Copyright,  igo2 
By  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company  I 


FIRST  EDITION  PUBLISHED 
SEPTEMBER,  igoa 


NV 

■3- 

I 

^  Preface 


^       "^N  making  a  second  collection  of  masterpieces  of  paint- 


-   I 


ings  that  have  given  pleasure  and  afforded  inspiration 
to  many  generations  of  mankind,  I  have  endeavoured  to 
represent  several  great  painters  who  did  not  appear  in  my 
former  volume,  of  which  this  is,  in  some  measure,  a  con- 
tinuation. Crivelli,  Luini,  Giorgione,  Moroni,  Landseer, 
Mantegna  and  Perugino  are  among  those  who  were  left  out 
of  Great  Pictures  for  lack  of  space.  Even  now,  looking  at 
the  two  volumes  together,  many  favourite  pictures  will  be 
missed  ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  how  impossible  it  is  to 
include  within  the  limits  of  two  small  books  every  work 
that  justly  holds  a  firm  place  in  the  affections  of  all  who 
love  and  reverence  great  art. 

The  pictures  in  this  series  are  not  only  paintings  with 
great  reputations,  but  each  one  is  a  painting  of  the  very 
k      first  rank.     Many  of  them  have  peculiar  charms  of  origi- 
nality ;  for  instance,  Carpaccio's  Due   Cortigiane  Feneziane^ 
which    Ruskin   considers  one  of   the  best  pictures  in  the 
world,   is   unique,   and    it   is   perhaps,   one   of  the   earliest 
1  \     paintings  in  which   animals  and  human   figures  apparently 
^1    receive    the    same    enthusiastic    attention    from   the   artist. 
0  )    Crivclli's  Annunciation^  conceived  in  the  style  of  the  paint- 
ings  in  the  illuminated  mediaeval  MSS.  is  another  work  that 

▼ 


VI  PREFACE 

delights  the  eye  and  mind;  Luini's  Columbine  is  an  en- 
chantress, who,  like  da  Vinci's  Mono  Lisa,  holds,  by  the 
power  of  her  strange  smile,  all  those  who  study  her;  and 
Veronese's  Rape  of  Europa  belongs  also  to  the  list  of  works 
that  captivate  the  fancy  forever  by  means  of  their  beauty, 
sumptuousness  and  subtle  charm. 

A  great  proportion  of  the  pictures  in  this  book  are  por- 
traits,— and  some  of  them,  such  as  the  Doge  Loredano, 
Charles  /.,  Innocent  X.,  Cardinal  Richelieu,  La  Bella  and  Mo- 
roni's Tailor,  are  numbered  among  the  most  celebrated  in  the 
world ;  there  are,  also,  a  great  many  others  in  this  volume, 
like  Veronese's  exquisite  Saint  Helena,  Giorgione's  Concert, 
Hals's  Banquet  of  the  Arquebusiers,  Reynolds's  ^«^^/y'  Heads 
and  Rembrandt's  Syndics  that  are  really  portraits.  Per-  ^«. 
haps,  too,  we  might  include  in  this  class  Raphael's  Ma- 
donnas, of  which  there  are  several.  I  need  not  apologize 
for  selecting  so  many  of  these  works  which  the  whole  , 
world  unites  in  placing  among  the  greatest  productions  of 
any  age  or  country. 

It  will  be  interesting  to  the  student  to  compare  them 
with  Murillo's,  Correggio's,  and  Ribera's  Holy  Families.  It 
will  also  be  interesting  to  consider  the  different  treatment 
that  Raphael  and  Carpaccio  give  the  ever  popular  legend 
of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon. 

I  have  generally  selected  authors  who  are  not  only  com- 
petent to  speak  with  authority,  but  who  describe  interest- 
ingly, the  pictures  and  the  artists  who  made  them. 

E.  S. 

New  York,  June,  1903, 


Contents 


The  Holy  Family,  (The  Pearl)       .  Raphael 

F.  A.  Gruyer. 

Due  CoRTiGiANE  Veneziane     .  .  Carpaccio 

John  Ruskin. 

The  Annunciation         .  .  .  Crivelli 

Cosmo  Monkhouse. 

The  Concert        ....  Giorgione 

Walter  Pater. 

St.  George  and  the  Dragon  .  Raphael 

F.  A.  Gruyer. 

The  Holy  Family  .         .         .         Murillo 

Henry  Jouin. 

The  Sun  of  Venice  Going  to  Sea  .  Turner 

John  Ruskin. 

The  Columbine     ....  Luini 

Marcel  Reymond. 

The  Angel  Musicians    .  .  .  Van  Eyck 

J.  A.  Crowe  and  G.  B.  Cavalcaselle. 

La  Belle  Jardiniere       .  .  .  Raphael 

F.  A.  Gruyer. 


Innocent  X. 


Henry  Jouin. 


l^elasquex 


Banquet  ok  Ar^uebusiers        .  .  F.  Hals 

Henry  Havard. 


9 
H 

20 

34 
41 
47 
51 

58 
68 

75 
83 


VUl 

The  Slave  Ship     . 


CONTENTS 


Turner 
John  Ruskin. 

The  Madonna  della  Sedia     .         .         Raphael 
F.  A.  Gruyer. 

Portrait  of  Charles  I.  ,         .  Van  Dyck 

Jules  Guiffrey. 

The  Presentation  in  the  Temple   .  Titian 

J.  A.  Crowe  and  G.  B.  Cavalcaselle. 

Proserpine   .....         Rossetti 

F.  G.  Stephens. 

The  Old  Shepherd's  Chief  Mourner      Landseer 
John  Ruskin. 

The  Virgin  of  the  Fish  .         .         Raphael 

F.  A.  Gruyer. 

Mrs.  Siddons         ....         Gainsborough 
Henry  Jouin. 

The  Nativity       ....         Botticelli     . 
Cosmo  Monkhouse. 

St.  George  and  the  Dragon  .  Carpaccio    . 

James  Reddie  Anderson. 

Portrait  of  a  Tailor    .  .  .  Moroni 

I.     Cosmo  Monkhouse. 
II.     R.  N.  Wornum. 

The  English  Ambassadors      .         .  Carpaccio   . 

John  Ruskin. 

The  Madonna  of  the  Diadem         .  Raphael     , 

F.  A.  Gruyer. 

Portrait  of  an  Old  Woman  .         Rembrandt . 

Emile  Michel. 

The  Rape  of  Europa     .         .         .         Veronese     . 
S.  A.  Ritman. 


90 
102 
112 
118 
124 
130 

134 
150 

162 
183 

.  187 

.  203 

.  210 

.  217 


CONTENTS 


IX 


The  Light  of  the  World      .  .  Hunt  , 

John  Ruskin. 

St.  Anne       .  .  .  .  .  L.  Ja  ririci 

F.  A.  Gruyer. 

Tobias  and  the  Angel  Raphael      .  Perugino 

Paul  Lafond. 

EccE  Ancilla  Domine    .  .  .  Rossetti 

I.     John  Ruskin. 
II.     William  Sharp. 

Cardinal  Richelieu       .  .  .  P.  de  Champaigne 

Gustave  Larroumet. 

The  Madonna  di  Foligno       .  .  Raphael 

F.  A.  Gruyer. 

Las  Meninas  ....  Velasquez,  . 

Carl  Justi. 

The  Syndics  ....  Rembrandt 

Emile  Michel. 

The  Age  of  Innocence  .         .         .         Reynolds     . 
L     F.  G.  Stephens. 
II.     Anonymous. 
Beautiful  Women  .  .         .  Titian 

J.  A.  Crowe  and  G.  B.  Cavalcaselle. 

The  Crucifixion  of  Christ    .  .  Rubens 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

Parnassus      .....  Mantegna 

Jules  Guiffrey. 

La  Notte     .....  Correggio 

Th^opile  Gautier. 
CEdipus  .....  Ingres 

Charles  Blanc. 

The  Annunciation  .  .  .  Fra  Lippo  Lippi 

CcjsMo  Monkhouse. 


224 

227 

234 
241 

247 

253 
269 
282 
290 

294 

301 

305 
312 

3'9 
323 


X                                             CONTENTS 

The  Cardinal-Prince  Ferdinand    . 
Carl  Justi. 

Velasquez  . 

•     333 

The  Madonna  of  the  Baldaquin    . 

F.  A.  Gruyer. 

Raphael     . 

.     338 

Saint  Helena        .... 

J.   BuiSSON. 

Veronese     . 

.     348 

The  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds  .         Ribera 

ToussAiNT  Bernard  Em£ric-David. 

•     355 

The  Doge  Loredano      .         .         .         Bellini 
Charles  Yriarte. 

•     359 

Angels'  Heads      .... 

Paul  Mantz. 

Reynolds     . 

•     363 

Illustrations 


Raphael 


Carpaccio  . 
Crivelli  .    . 

GlORGIONE    . 

Raphael .    . 

MURILLO  .     . 

Turner  .  . 
Ll'ini  .  .  . 
Van  Eyck  . 
Raphael  . 
Velasquez  . 
-  Frans  Hals 
Turner  .  . 
Raphael 
Van  Dyck  . 
Titian  .  .  . 
rossetti  .  . 
Landseer    . 

Raphael  . 
Gainsborough 
Botticelli  . 
Carpaccio  . 
Moroni  .  . 
Carpaccio  . 
Raphael  . 
Rembrandt 
Veronese  . 
Hunt  .  .  . 
L.  DA  Vinci 
Perugino 


The  Holy  Family Madrid 

(The  Pearl.) 


Due  Cortigiane  Vcneziane    .    . 

The  Annunciation 

The  Concert 

.  St.  George  and  the  Dragon  .    . 

The  Holy  Family 

The  Sun  of  Venice  Going  to  Sea, 

The  Columbine 

The  Angel  Musicians 

La  Belle  Jardiniere 

,  Innocent  X 

,  Banquet  of  Arquebusiers  .    .    . 

The  Slave  Ship 

•  The  Madonna  della  Sedia    .    . 

.  Portrait  of  Charles  I 

.  Presentation  in  the  Temple  .    . 

,  Proserpine 

.  The  Old  Shepherd's  Chief 

Mourner 

.  The  Virgin  of  the  Fish     .    .    . 

.  Mrs.  Siddons 

.  The  Nativity 

.  St.  George  and  the  Dragon   .    . 

.  Portrait  of  a  Tailor 

.  The  English  Ambassadors  .  . 
.  The  Madonna  of  the  Diadem  . 
.  Portrait  of  an  Old  Woman    .    . 

.  Rape  of  Kuropa 

.  The  Light  of  the  World    .    .    . 

.  St.  Anne 

.  Tobias  and  the  Angel  Raphael  . 


Frontispiece. 

Facing  pagb 

Venice  .    .    . 

.      9 

London    .    . 

.    14 

Florence  .    . 

.    20 

Paris    .    .    . 

•    34 

Faris    .    .    . 

•    41 

London     .    . 

•    47 

S(.  Peter sbur, 

r.  5» 

Berlin  .    . 

•    .S8 

Faris     .    , 

.    68 

Fome    .    . 

•    75 

Haarlem  . 

•    8^ 

Boston  .    . 

9«> 

Florence    • 

■  loe 

Faris     .    . 

.  113 

Venice  ,    . 

.  118 

London  .   . 

•   »24 

London     . 

•  »3o 

Madrid    . 

•  134 

London 

•  'SO 

London 

•  '57 

Venice  .    . 

.  i^a 

London 

.    .  181 

Venice    .    . 

.   .187 

Paris      .    . 

.    .  ao3 

St.  Fetersbur 

S    .  3IO 

Venice   .    . 

.    .  ai7 

Oxford.    . 

.    .  224 

Paris      .    . 

.    .  227 

London 

•    .234 

XII 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


RossETTi Ecce  Ancilla  Domine     ....  London 

P.  DE  Champaigns  Cardinal  Richelieu Faris 

Raphael     ....  Madonna  di  Foligno Rome 

Velasquez  ....  Las  Meninas Madrid 

Rembrandt    .    .    .  The  Syndics Amsterdam 

Reynolds   ...      The  Age  of  Innocence  ....  London 

Titian La  Bella Florence 

Rubens The  Crucifixion Antwerp 

Mantegna  ....  Parnassus Faris     . 

Correggio  ....  La  Notte      Faris 

Ingres CEdipus Faris     . 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi    .  The  Annunciation London 

Velasquez  ....  The  Cardinal-Prince]Ferdinand,  Madrid 
Raphael     ....  The  Madonna  of  the  Baldaquin,  Florence 

Veronese    ....  Saint  Helena London 

Ribera The  Adoration  of  the 

Shepherds Faris 

Bellini The  Doge  Loredano London 

Reynoujs    ....  Angels'  Heads London 


341 

247 
253 
269 
282 
290 
294 
301 

305 
312 

319 
323 
333 
338 
348 

355 
359 
363 


THE  HOLY  FAMILY  (The  Pearl) 
{Raphael) 

F.  A.   GRUYER 

THE  history  of  art  had  taught  us  that  the  palace  of  the 
King  of  Spain  contained  several  pictures  by  Raphael 
long  before  events  made  us  acquainted  with  them.  But, 
outside  the  dominions  of  His  Catholic  Majesty,  it  was  diffi- 
cult for  one  to  form  an  exact  idea  of  the  merits  of  this 
precious  collection.  Vasari,  who  mentions  the  Madonna 
known  as  the  Fish^  and  the  Bearing  of  the  Cross^  takes  no 
notice  either  of  the  Visitation^  or  of  the  Holy  Family  known 
as  the  Pearl.  The  displacement  of  the  five  pictures  of 
which  France  was  the  depository  for  some  time  helped  to 
bring  them  into  great  renown.  Taken  to  Paris  in  the  year 
1813,  towards  the  close  of  the  war,  they  were  there 
received  with  the  admiration  and  welcome  due  to  their  rare 
beauty:  we  might  almost  say  that  there  they  became  the 
objects  of  a  universal  worship. 

Restorations  recognized  as  indispensable  and  carried  out 
with  the  greatest  possible  care  have  done  away  with  the 
slightest  trace  of  the  changes  that  Time  had  wrought :  and, 
according  to  the  expression  of  the  reputable  judges  who 
were  entrusted  with  the  task  of  examining  these  pictures 
before  and  after  the  work,  these  restorations  have  assured  a 


2  THE  HOLY  FAMILY 

new  life  for  them.  Finally,  the  lines  are  now  reproduced 
by  faithful  engravers ;  and  by  this  means  the  friends  of  art 
in  all  countries  may  join  France  and  Spain  in  just  homage. 

One  of  these  five  pictures  appears  to  have  been  finished 
by  Giulio  Romano.  The  authenticity  of  the  others  cannot 
be  contested.  On  this  point,  testimony  of  every  kind 
would  contribute  to  the  assistance  of  criticism,  if  the  hand 
of  the  printer  here  were  to  be  denied.  They  all  date  from 
the  period  when,  enlightened  by  study  of  the  antique  and 
excited  by  Michael  Angelo's  success,  Raphael  added  to  the 
grace  and  truth  that  were  natural  to  him,  the  grandiose 
rendering  of  art  by  his  learned  rival,  and  caused  us  to 
admire  the  style  known  as  his  third  manner. 

There  is  no  quality  fit  to  honour  this  great  painter  that 
is  not  manifested  in  these  masterpieces  in  a  very  eminent 
degree ;  and  there  is  not  one  of  the  chief  rules  of  art  that 
cannot  be  admired  here  in  its  happiest  application.  If  we 
direct  our  attention  to  the  choice  of  forms,  we  recognize  in 
them  the  invariable  principles  of  Raphael's  style  in  that 
love  of  truth  that  only  aspires  to  please  us  by  touching  our 
emotions ;  that  noble,  purified  and  delicate  taste  that  gives 
equal  dignity  and  grace  to  everything;  that  sure  tact,  that 
appropriates  with  such  perfect  propriety  the  external  appear- 
ance of  the  personages  to  their  rank  and  moral  character,  as 
well  as  to  the  part  they  play  in  the  pictorial  drama.  If  we 
study  more  minutely  the  relief  of  the  bodies,  we  find  in 
them  those  learned  traits,  those  graceful  contours  and  those 
forms  at  once  so  precise  and  soft  that  constitute  all  the 
works    of    this    great    master    such    excellent    models    for 


THE  HOLY  FAMILY  3 

Studies.  The  very  truth  and  richness  of  the  colour,  the 
spirit  of  the  touch,  and  the  diversity  of  the  handling  have 
almost  as  much  right  to  our  admiration  as  the  beauty  of 
the  types  and  the  correctness  of  the  drawing.  In  a  word, 
in  every  part  of  the  work,  we  recognize  the  privileged 
being,  the  sublime  painter  to  whom  no  kind  of  perfection 
was  foreign  so  soon  as  he  desired  to  attain  it. 

But  in  these  beautiful  works,  as  in  all  those  by  Raphael, 
what  most  strongly  charms  the  mind,  what  moves,  pene- 
trates, transports  and  carries  away  all  hearts  is  that  multi- 
tude of  elevated  or  simple  ideas,  vehement  or  more 
frequently  tender  and  sweet  affections,  which  while  multi- 
plying themselves  in  the  same  picture,  and  sometimes  while 
combining  in  the  expression  of  the  features  of  the  same 
personage,  impress  upon  us  the  idea  of  a  superhuman  and 
veritably  divine  nature. 

Anciently  owned  by  the  dukes  of  Mantua,  the  Holy 
Family^  known  as  the  Pearly  was  included  in  the  numerous 
collection  of  pictures  that  the  unfortunate  Charles  I.,  King 
of  England,  at  the  beginning  of  his  reign  purchased  from 
Charles  I.  of  Gonzaga,  who  soon  afterwards  was  driven 
from  his  dominions.  On  the  death  of  the  King  of  Eng- 
land,'  Philip   IV.,  King  of   Spain,   a    no    less  enlightened 


'  In  1649,  after  the  death  of  that  unfortunate  prince,  Don  Alonzo  de 
Cardenas,  Spanish  ambassador  to  Cromwell,  houpht  a  large  number  of 
pictures  from  the  gallery  in  Whitehall  for  Philip  IV.  The  Pearl  was 
Among  the  number.  De  los  .Santos  asserts  that  "  a  great  sum  "  was  paid 
and  that  Philip  IV.  immediately  had  it  jjlaced  in  the  sacristy  of  the 
Escurial,  where  it  always  remained.  Antonio  Conca  says  that  nearly 
/3,cx»  sterling  was  |)aid  for  it. 


4  THE  HOLY  FAMILY 

amateur  and  himself  a  painter,  caused  it  to  be  purchased 
with  other  pictures  at  the  sale  of  the  possessions  of  that 
prmce. 

We  are  told  that  when  he  first  saw  it,  struck  with  its 
beauty  Philip  cried  :  "  That  is  my  pearl !  "  Thence  comes 
that  name  that  has  been  handed  down  to  us,  and  which 
while  serving  to  designate  a  precious  monument  of  art,  has 
become  its  most  worthy  eulogy. 

The  phrase  by  which  Philip  expressed  the  impression 
produced  upon  him  by  this  smiling  picture  does  indeed  give 
a  just  idea  of  the  kind  of  merit  that  characterizes  it  and  the 
perfection  that  distinguishes  it.  Among  all  Raphael's 
works,  there  is  nothing  more  finished  nor  more  pure.  In  it 
we  see  united  all  the  truth,  spirit  and  delicacy  that  the 
brush  of  this  master  could  express. 

The  scene  is  entirely  gracious  in  manner.  The  little 
St.  John,  lifting  with  both  hands  the  shaggy  skin  that  serves 
as  his  vestment,  is  presenting  some  fruit  to  the  Infant  Jesus 
in  the  kind  of  basket  thus  formed.  About  to  take  it,  Jesus, 
sitting  on  his  mother's  knees,  turns  round  towards  her, 
smiling  as  if  to  communicate  his  joy  to  her.  Mary  is  sup- 
porting him  with  her  right  hand,  while  her  left  reaches  out 
and  rests  upon  St.  Anne's  shoulder,  while  at  the  same  time 
she  is  looking  affectionately  at  the  Forerunner.  Anne,  on 
her  knees,  with  one  elbow  leaning  on  her  daughter's  left 
thigh,  gives  herself  up  to  meditation  as  she  watches  the  two 
children.  The  cradle  stands  in  front  of  the  Virgin  who 
rests  one  foot  on  each  side  of  it.  In  this  interwoven 
group,  Mary,  closely  united  with  all  she  holds  most  dear, 


THE  HOLY  FAMILY  5 

at  the  same  time  expresses  her  tenderness  towards  her  son, 
her  mother,  and  her  cousin's  son.  An  ingenious,  pictur- 
esque mechanism  has  thus  become  a  medium  of  expression 
that  is  so  much  the  more  touching  in  that  it  appears  to  be 
taken  direct  from  nature.  Beautiful,  gentle  and  modest, 
the  Virgin  already  belongs  as  much  to  Heaven  as  to  earth. 
The  varied  feelings  with  which  she  is  animated  are  im- 
pressed upon  her  modest  face  without  any  confusion.  She 
loves  St.  John;  but  her  affection  is  not  that  of  a  mother; 
ideas  of  superiority  and  protection  mingle  with  her  tender- 
ness :  whilst  holding  her  son  with  tender  solicitude,  she 
seems  to  say  to  the  Forerunner:  "You  are  not  his 
equal  !  " 

The  character  which  Raphael  has  generally  given  to  the 
Infant  Jesus  is  one  of  the  most  poetic  conceptions  of  this 
great  master.  The  type  is  that  of  an  infant  Hercules.  The 
extremities,  however,  are  more  delicate  and  the  contours 
are  finer.  In  the  movements  as  well  as  in  the  features  of 
this  extraordinary  being,  we  see  a  superabundance  of  power 
accompanied  by  an  inexpressible  grace.  Such  is  the  Divine 
Infant  in  this  picture,  and  his  joy  seems  to  add  still  more  to 
his  beauty.  I  am  not  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  a  writer 
who  has  published  a  very  detailed  description  of  the  five 
pictures  by  Raphael  that  belong  to  the  King  of  Spain,  has 
regarding  this  one  expressed  an  opinion  entirely  contrary  to 
that  which  I  have  adopted.  According  to  him,  St.  Jt>Hn 
is  presenting  to  the  Infant  Jesus  a  chestnut  in  its  burr; 
Jesus  has  pricked  himself  with  it;  and  this  prick,  bv  awa- 
kening the  presentiment  of  the  sufferings  on  the  cross,  has 


6  THE  HOLY  FAMILY 

cast  sadness  over  the  Holy  Family.  It  is  impossible  for  me 
not  to  remove  such  a  serious  error,  for  the  reader  otherwise 
vi'ould  have  the  right  to  suppose  that  I  was  the  one  to  be 
mistaken.  What  the  writer  to  whom  I  refer  has  taken  for 
the  spiky  covering  of  a  chestnut  is  nothing  more  than  a 
corner  of  the  camel  skin  that  forms  the  vestment  of  St. 
John  the  Baptist.  To  raise  this  sort  of  tunic,  St.  John 
takes  it  in  both  hands  and  one  part  protrudes  between  the 
thumb  and  index  finger  of  his  right  hand.  It  is  this  piece 
held  between  the  two  fingers  which,  by  its  brown  tint  and 
the  hair  with  which  it  is  covered,  presents  the  appearance 
of  a  chestnut ;  but  a  very  slight  examination  will  suffice  to 
recognize  the  real  facts.  Although  the  painters  have  often 
associated  the  idea  of  the  death  of  Jesus  Christ  with  the 
image  of  the  Holy  Family,  we  must  not  attribute  this  idea 
to  them  unless  it  is  presented  in  a  very  visible  manner,  since 
it  is  opposed  to  the  text  of  the  sacred  books,  wherein  it  is 
never  said  that  the  parents  of  Jesus  Christ  had  any  antici- 
pated knowledge  of  his  Passion.  In  the  picture  of  La  belle 
Jardiniere^  we  see  the  little  St.  John  holding  a  cross  made 
of  reeds :  we  must  suppose  that  this  instrument  was  only 
made  in  childish  play.  This  emblem,  although  interesting 
to  us,  has  no  significance  in  the  eyes  of  the  Virgin.  If  the 
sight  of  the  cross  were  to  seem  to  afflict  her,  then  the  artist's 
intention  would  be  at  variance  with  Holy  Writ.  I  do  not 
think  that  Raphael  ever  fell  into  this  error.  Like  De  la 
Puente,  De  los  Santos  saw  nothing  in  this  picture  beyond  a 
joyous  subject. 

The  care  that  Raphael  took  to  endow  his  design  with  all 


THE  HOLY  FAMILY  7 

the  grandeur  and  his  expression  of  it  with  all  the  energy  of 
the  idea  which  he  had  conceived  is  manifested  in  several 
changes  which  our  eyes  are  surprised  to  notice,  but  which 
they  nevertheless  follow  with  greedy  curiosity,  charmed  to 
discover  to  some  degree  the  secret  of  the  method  of  the 
painter's  talent.  The  head  was  originally  in  profile  ;  it  had 
been  set  three  quarters  full.  The  hair  has  been  raised 
above  the  left  temple.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  face  has 
gained  in  beauty  by  these  alterations.  Second  thoughts  are 
also  to  be  seen  in  the  Virgin's  left  hand,  and  the  left  thigh 
of  the  Infant  Jesus, 

Notwithstanding  the  choice  lines  in  St.  John's  form,  he 
is  yet  far  below  the  Saviour  in  beauty.  The  difference 
that  distinguishes  these  two  children  is  the  same  as  in  every 
Holy  Family  by  Raphael :  one  of  the  two  always  appears  as 
the  son  of  a  man  and  the  other  as  a  god. 

The  Virgin's  costume  exhibits  the  elegant  simplicity  that 
Raphael  never  forgets.  The  tresses  of  her  hair  and  the  veil 
that  falls  from  her  head  in  waves  are  adjusted  with  as  much 
grace  as  dignity. 

The  colouring,  although  slightly  darkened  by  time,  still 
preserves  a  ravishing  vigour,  skill  and  harmony.  There  are 
parts  in  it  that  the  Venetian  schools  could  never  have  sur- 
passed. The  flesh  tints  of  the  Infant  Jesus  are  as  brilliant 
as  the  outlines  of  his  figure  arc  pure,  and  the  mo\cnK'nts 
lively  and  graceful.  The  delicacy  of  the  brush  here  is  al- 
most prodigious  -,  and  this  in  a  master  the  elevation  of  whose 
ideas  so  often  distracted  him  from  the  minute  cares  of  exe- 
cution.     Amid   the   strongest   shadows,  all  the  relief  of  iia- 


8  THE  HOLY  FAMILY 

ture  forces  our  admiration.  The  landscape,  adorned  with 
figures,  charms  the  eye  with  the  precision  of  its  details  and 
the  transparency  of  its  distances ;  and  in  the  depths  of  the 
ruined  edifice,  where  St.  Joseph  is  visible,  a  soft  and  silvery 
light  plays. 

A  masterpiece  of  taste,  this  picture  contains  all  the  kinds 
of  perfection  proper  to  the  subject;  and  the  most  severe 
criticism  would  find  difficulty  in  discovering  any  negligences 
in  it.  The  composition,  the  design,  the  expression  and  the 
colour  present  an  almost  perfect  merit  in  every  part. 


DUE  CORTIGIANE  VENEZIANE 

(  Carpaccio) 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

TO  Carpaccio,  whatever  he  has  to  represent  must  be  a 
reality  ;  whether  a  symbol  or  not,  afterwards,  is  no 
matter,  the  first  condition  is  that  it  shall  be  real.  A  ser- 
pent, or  a  bird,  may  perhaps  mean  iniquity  or  purity ;  but 
primarily,  they  must  have  real  scales  and  feathers.  But 
with  Luini,  everything  is  primarily  an  idea,  and  only  realized 
so  far  as  to  enable  you  to  understand  what  is  meant.  When 
St  Stephen  stands  beside  Christ  at  His  scourging,  and  turns 
to  us  who  look  on,  asking  with  unmistakable  passion, 
*'  Was  ever  sorrow  like  this  sorrow  ?  "  Luini  does  not 
mean  that  St.  Stephen  really  stood  there ;  but  only  that  the 
thought  of  the  saint  who  first  saw  Christ  in  glory  might 
best  lead  us  to  the  thought  of  Christ  in  pain.  But  when 
Carpaccio  paints  St.  Stephen  preaching,  he  means  to  make 
us  believe  that  St.  Stephen  really  did  preach,  and  as  far  as 
he  can,  to  show  us  exactly  how  he  did  it. 

And,  lastly,  to  return  to  the  point  at  which  we  left  him. 
His  own  notion  of  the  way  things  happened  may  be  a  very 
curious  one,  and  the  more  so  that  it  cannot  be  regulated 
even  by  himself,  but  is  the  result  of  the  singular  power  he 
has  of  seeing  things  in  vision  as  if  they  were  real.     So  that 


lO  DUE  CORTIGIANE  VENEZIANE 

when,  as  we  have  seen,  he  paints  Solomon  and  the  Queen 
of  Sheba  standing  at  opposite  ends  of  a  wooden  bridge  over 
a  ditch,  we  are  not  to  suppose  the  two  persons  are  less  real 
to  him  on  that  account,  though  absurd  to  us ;  but  we  are 
to  understand  that  such  a  vision  of  them  did  indeed  appear 
to  the  boy  who  had  passed  all  his  dawning  life  among 
wooden  bridges,  over  ditches ;  and  had  the  habit  besides  of 
spiritualizing,  or  reading  like  a  vision,  whatever  he  saw  with 
eyes  either  of  the  body  or  mind. 

The  delight  which  he  had  in  this  faculty  of  vision,  and 
the  industry  with  which  he  cultivated  it,  can  only  be  justly 
estimated  by  close  examination  of  the  marvellous  picture  in 
the  Correr  Museum,  representing  two  Venetian  ladies  with 
their  pets. 

In  the  last  general  statement  I  have  made  of  the  rank  of 
painters,  I  named  two  pictures  of  John  Bellini,  the  Ma- 
donna of  San  Zaccaria,  and  that  in  the  sacristy  of  the 
Frari,  as,  so  far  as  my  knowledge  went,  the  two  best  pic- 
tures in  the  world.  In  that  estimate  of  them  I  of  course 
considered  as  one  chief  element,  their  solemnity  of  purpose 
— as  another,  their  unpretending  simplicity.  Putting  aside 
these  higher  conditions  and  looking  only  to  perfection  of 
execution  and  essentially  artistic  power  of  design,  I  rank 
this  Carpaccio  above  either  of  them,  and  therefore,  as  in 
these  respects,  the  best  picture  in  the  world.  I  know  no 
other  which  unites  every  nameable  quality  of  painter's  art 
in  so  intense  a  degree — breadth  with  minuteness,  brilliancy 
with  quietness,  decision  with  tenderness,  colour  with  light 
and  shade  :    all  that  is  faithfullest  in  Holland,  fancifuUest  in 


Ml  r   M.  1   \  N  P        \   I    M    /IAN  K 


DUE  CORTIGIANE  VENEZIANE  II 

Venice,  severest  in  Florence,  naturalcst  in  England.  What- 
ever de  Hooghe  could  do  in  shade,  Van  Eyck  in  detail — 
Giorgione  in  mass — Titian  in  colour — Berwick  and  Land- 
seer  in  animal  life,  is  here  at  once ;  and  I  know  no  other 
picture  in  the  world  which  can  be  compared  to  it. 

It  is  in  tempera,  however,  not  oil  :  and  I  must  note  in 
passing  that  many  of  the  qualities  which  I  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  praising  in  Tintoret  and  Carpaccio,  as  consummate 
achievements  in  oil-painting,  are,  as  I  have  found  lately, 
either  m  tempera  altogether,  or  tempera  with  oil  above. 
And  I  am  disposed  to  think  that  ultimately  tempera  will  be 
found  the  proper  material  for  the  greater  number  of  most 
delightful  subjects. 

The  subject,  in  the  present  instance,  is  a  simple  study  of 
animal  life  in  all  its  phases.  I  am  quite  sure  that  this  is  the 
meaning  of  the  picture  in  Carpaccio's  own  mind.  I  sup- 
pose him  to  have  been  commissioned  to  paint  the  portraits 
of  two  Venetian  ladies — that  he  did  not  altogether  like  his 
models,  but  yet  felt  himself  bound  to  do  his  best  for  them, 
and  contrived  to  do  what  perfectly  satisfied  them  and  him- 
self too.  He  has  painted  their  pretty  faces  and  pretty 
shoulders,  their  pretty  dresses  and  pretty  jewels,  their  pretty 
wavs  and  their  pretty  playmates — and  what  would  they 
have  more  ?  — he  himself  secretly  laughing  at  them  all  the 
time,  and  intending  the  spectators  of  the  future  to  laugh 
for  ever. 

It  may  be,  however,  that  I  err  in  supposing  the  picture  a 
portrait  commission.  It  may  be  simply  a  study  for  practice, 
gathering  together  every  kind  of  thing  which  he  could  get 


12  DUE  CORTIGIANE  VENEZIANE 

to  sit  to  him  quietly,  persuading  the  pretty  ladies  to  sit  to 
him  in  all  their  finery,  and  to  keep  their  pets  quiet  as  long 
as  they  could,  while  yet  he  gave  value  to  this  nev/  group  of 
studies  in  a  certain  unity  of  satire  against  the  vices  of 
society  in  his  time. 

Of  this  satirical  purpose  there  cannot  be  question  for  a 
moment,  with  any  one  who  knows  the  general  tone  of  the 
painter's  mind,  and  the  traditions  among  which  he  had  been 
educated.  In  all  the  didactic  painting  of  mediaeval  Chris- 
tianity, the  faultful  luxury  of  the  upper  classes  was  symbol- 
ized by  the  knight  with  his  falcon,  and  lady  with  her  pet 
dog,  both  in  splendid  dress.  This  picture  is  only  the 
elaboration  of  the  well-recognized  symbol  of  the  lady  with 
her  pets  ;  but  there  are  two  ladies — mother  and  daughter,  I 
think — and  six  pets,  a  big  dog,  a  little  dog,  a  parroquet,  a 
peahen,  a  little  boy  and  a  china  vase.  The  younger  of  the 
women  sits  serene  in  her  pride,  her  erect  head  pale  against 
the  dark  sky — the  elder  is  playing  with  the  two  dogs ;  the 
least,  a  white  terrier,  she  is  teaching  to  beg,  holding  him  up 
by  his  fore-paws,  with  her  left  hand ;  in  her  right  is  a 
slender  riding-whip,  which  the  larger  dog  has  the  end  of 
in  his  mouth,  and  will  not  let  go — his  mistress  also  having 
dropped  a  letter,  ^  he  puts  his  paw  on  that  and  will  not  let 
her  pick  it  up,  looking  out  of  gentlest  eyes  in  arch  watch- 
fulness to  see  how  far  it  will  please  her  that  he  should  carry 
the  jest.  Behind  him  the  green  parroquet,  red-eyed,  lifts  its 
little  claw  as  if  disliking  the  marble  pavement ;  then  be- 
hind the  marble  balustrade  with  gilded  capitals,  the  bird  and 
>  The  painter's  signature  is  on  the  supposed  letter. 


DUE  CORTIGIANE  VENEZIANE  1 3 

little  boy  are  inlaid  with  glowing  brown  and  red.  Nothing 
of  Hunt  or  Turner  can  surpass  the  plume-painting  of  the 
bird  ;  nor  can  Holbein  surpass  the  precision,  while  he  can- 
not equal  the  radiance,  of  the  porcelain  and  jewelry. 

To  mark  the  satirical  purpose  of  the  whole,  a  pair  of 
ladies'  shoes  are  put  in  the  corner,  (the  high-stilted  shoe, 
being,  in  fact,  a  slipper  on  tb"  top  of  a  column,)  which 
were  the  grossest  and  absurdest  means  of  expressing  female 
pride  in  the  Fifteenth  and  following  centuries. 

In  this  picture,  then,  you  may  discern  at  once  how  Car- 
paccio  learned  his  business  as  a  painter,  and  to  what  con- 
summate point  he  learned  it. 


THE   ANNUNCIATION 

(  Crivelli) 

COSMO  MONKHOUSE 

CARLO  CRIVELLI  is  another  Venetian  artist  ot 
whom  we  know  little  but  what  can  be  gathered 
from  pictures.  He  is  supposed  to  have  been  born  about 
1430,  and  his  dated  works  range  from  1468  to  1493.  ^^ 
was  a  Venetian  by  birth,  and  from  his  mode  it  would  ap- 
pear certain  that  he  studied  under  Squarcione  at  Padua, 
and  probably  also  under  the  Vivarini  at  Venice.  But  he  per- 
fected a  style,  and  one  marked  by  so  many  peculiarities  that 
despite  all  affinities  which  may  be  traced  with  other  masters, 
he  stands  out  clear  and  distinct  by  himself. 

In  the  first  place,  he  is  unique  as  a  colourist.  He  be- 
longs, indeed,  to  the  old  mosaic  and  illumination  school  of 
colour,  not  to  the  school  of  great  "  schemes,"  in  which  the 
masses  are  blent  into  one  great  harmony.  The  masses  or 
patches  of  colour  are  isolated,  and  produce  a  pleasant 
variegation,  without  fusion.  His  colour  is  thin,  also,  as  of 
a  superficial  tinting,  not  affecting  the  substance.  His  flesh 
is  hard  and  opaque,  his  flowers  leathery,  his  fruit,  though 
finely  drawn  and  beautifully  coloured,  of  a  stony  texture  ; 
and  his  draperies  everything  but  soft.  It  is  only  in  hard, 
smooth  things  like  pottery  and  glass,  as  in   The  Madonna  in 


Till.     A  VM  NCIATION. 


THE  ANNUNCIATION  15 

Ecstasy^  or  of  brick  and  marble,  as  in  The  Annunciation^ 
that  you  get  the  true  consistency  as  well  as  the  true  colour. 
Yet  his  colour  is  exquisite  of  its  kind,  brilliant  and  trans- 
parent like  enamel,  and  the  different  tints  in  themselves  are 
lovely  and  varied.  Such  reds  and  greens,  and  lilacs  and 
salmon-pinks,  and  a  hundred  other  combinations  of  the  pri- 
maries, are  scarcely  to  be  matched  in  the  work  of  any  other 
artibt.  Nor  has  any  one  been  more  skilful  in  the  use  of 
gold  in  connection  with  colour.  Like  Antonio  Vivarini 
and  Pisanello,  he  used  it  in  relief,  even  decorating  it  with 
real  stones,  as  we  see  in  the  keys,  the  mitre,  and  the  or- 
phreys  of  S.  Peter,  and  the  ornaments  of  S.  Catherine. 
This  was  a  remnant  of  Byzantine  practice,  and  in  unskilful 
hands  has  an  unreal  effect ;  but  Crivelli's  modelling  was  so 
forcible  and  his  colour  so  carefully  adapted,  that  the  passage 
from  paint  to  relief  is  scarcely  perceptible. 

There  is  scarcely  need  to  call  attention  to  Crivelli's 
special  gift  as  a  designer  of  decoration,  '\lmost  every 
square  inch  of  his  canvas  attests  the  inexhaustible  richness 
of  his  invention — an  invention  fed,  no  doubt,  from  the  rich 
products  of  Oriental  looms,  of  which  Venice  was  the 
emporium.  The  patterns  of  his  stuffs  and  dresses  in  the 
eight  pictures  in  the  National  Gallery,  are  almost  enough 
to  set  up  a  modern  designer  for  life;  and  his  sculpturesque 
ornamental  reliefs  are  extraordinary  for  elegance,  spirit,  and 
audacity.  Sec,  for  example,  his  treatment  of  elephants* 
heads  and  trunks  in  The  Madonna  in  Ecstasy  (No.  906), 
and  of  dolphins  m  the  great  altar-piece  (No.  788),  and  the 
boldness  with  which   he  has  used  the  crown  of  a  cherub's 


l6  THE  ANNUNCIATION 

head  as  a  decorative  feature  on  the  base  of  the  throne  of 
the  same  picture.  It  is  to  be  remarked  that  the  beautiful 
festoons  which  decorate  the  base,  though  adjusted  to 
resemble  carved  ornament,  are  meant  for  real  fruit.  They 
are  tied  with  string  and  fastened  with  nails.  Such  ingen- 
ious and  abundant  fancies,  if  they  do  not  make  the  greatest 
art,  are  full  of  interest  and  charm,  and  render  the  work  of 
Crivelli  fascinating  in  no  usual  degree,  if  only  for  its 
decorative  detail. 

A  higher  order  of  invention  is  seen  in  the  design  of  the 
various  mises  en  scene,  in  which  his  figures  are  set.  Oc- 
casionally, as  in  The  Beato  Ferretti  (No.  668),  we  have  a 
landscape,  but  by  far  the  most  beautiful  at  the  National 
Gallery — probably  the  most  beautiful  that  he  ever  painted 
— is  that  of  The  Annunciation  (No.  739),  in  which  he  shows 
the  inside  of  the  Virgin's  Chamber,  the  outside  of  her  mag- 
nificent house,  and  a  street  scene  at  once  realistic  and 
romantic.  Although,  perhaps.  The  Annunciation  is  ex- 
ceeded by  The  Madonna,  etc.,  (No.  724),  in  brilliant  purity 
of  colour,  and  some  of  his  single  figures  have  more  intensity 
of  character,  his  genius  is  perhaps  more  completely  repre- 
sented in  this  picture  than  in  any  other.  Here,  for  once, 
his  lively  fancy  has  had  its  fullest  play,  and  revels  in  a 
gorgeousness  and  elaboration  of  detail  even  beyond  his 
wont.  Fortunately  for  him,  his  imagination  was  not  tram- 
melled, like  that  of  artists  of  the  present  day,  by  ouestions 
of  historical  accuracy  or  physical  possibilities.  To  him  the 
presence  of  S.  Emidius  by  the  side  of  the  announcing  angel 
suggested  no  absurdity,  and  it  never  occurred  to  him  that 


THE  ANNUNCIATION  I7 

the  neatly  finished  orifice  through  which  the  Holy  Dove 
has  entered  the  Virgin's  chamber  would  present  any  diffi- 
culty to  the  most  realistic  mind. 

Here,  for  once,  also  he  gives  us  not  only  the  incident, 
but  introduces  spectators,  as  was  the  custom  of  the  Floren- 
tine School  of  the  same  period.  Besides  the  frankly 
anachronistic  bishop,  there  are  several  figures  in  the  street 
dressed  in  the  Italian  costume  of  Crivelli's  time.  One 
noble-looking  gentleman,  dazzled  by  the  sudden  beam  of 
light  that  strikes  across  the  road,  raises  his  hand  to  his 
brow,  the  better  to  investigate  the  extraordinary  phenome- 
non. Still  more  naive  and  delightful  is  the  little  child  who 
timidly  peeps  from  a  place  of  vantage  at  the  mysterious 
occurrence  that  is  taking  place  over  the  way. 

Thus  we  have  the  whole  scene  idyllically,  even  dramat- 
ically, rendered,  as  though  we  were  present  at  an  exquis- 
itely mounted  play.  Although  in  many  respects  the  work 
of  Crivclli,  by  the  strained  formality  of  the  figures,  the 
system  of  colouration,  and  the  profuse  use  of  gold,  still  bear 
traces  of  remote  influences,  they  seldom  fail  to  remind  us 
that  we  are  past  the  middle  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  that 
the  difficulties  of  anatomy  and  perspective  have  been 
mastered,  that  a  lively  interest  in  nature  and  human  nature 
has  sprung  up,  that  technical  excellence  and  artistic  beauty 
are  sought  for  their  sakes — in  a  word,  that  Crivelli  was  the 
contemporary  of  Botticelli,  Ghirlandajo,  and  Mantcgna. 

Crivclli  wrought  only  for  the  Church,  and  appears  to 
have  spent  most  of  his  life  at  Ascoli,  but  neither  restriction 
of  subject  and  feeling,  nor  provincial  residence,  could  fetter 


l8  THE  ANNUNCIATION 

his  genius.  There  is,  indeed,  no  artist  of  more  striking 
individuality  than  Carlo  Crivelli,  no  one  who  had  more 
complete  mastery  over  his  means  of  expression,  or  attained 
more  nearly  to  his  ideal.  This  ideal  wzs  not  the  "  beau- 
ideal  "  of  later  art — that  is  to  say,  the  perfection  of  physical 
beauty^ — it  vi^as  an  ideal  of  character,  the  embodiment  of 
the  essential  qualities  of  his  subject.  When  beauty  wzs 
essential,  as  in  the  Virgin  Mary,  or  the  royal  martyr,  S. 
Catherine  of  Alexandria,  it  was  sought,  but  only  as  one  out 
of  many  attributes.  When  not  essential,  as  in  S.  John  the 
Baptist  or  S.  Peter,  the  artist's  whole  imagination  was 
devoted  to  the  creation  of  a  form  which  should  be  the  exact 
expression  of  the  spirit  within.  In  this  aim  he  was  not 
indeed  original,  but  he  achieved  it  with  singular  fervour 
and  completeness.  In  some  of  his  conceptions,  as,  for 
instance,  in  those  of  S.  John  Baptist  and  S.  Catherine,  his 
imagination  indulges  in  the  extravagant  and  touches  the 
grotesque.  A  refined  fantasticism  characterizes  his  work 
generally,  but  it  is  always  not  only  refined  but  coherent. 
It  may  be  said  that  S.  Catherine's  fingers  are  preternaturally 
long,  her  demeanour  affected,  her  expression  a  grimace  ; 
but  if  we  say  this,  we  must  also  say  that  the  whole  figure, 
hands  and  all,  is  a  complete  and  most  dainty  conception, 
and  that  there  is  not  a  degraded  line  or  a  vulgar  touch 
throughout. 

I  have  dwelt  so  long  upon  Crivelli,  not  because  he  is 
comparable  to  the  greatest  artists  as  a  mover  of  grand 
emotions,  or  as  a  master  of  the  noblest  form  or  colour,  but 
because  his   really  remarkable  gifts  are   apt  to  be  unduly 


THE  ANNUNCIATION  l9 

neglected  in  comparison  with  more  transcendent  powers, 
and  because  the  National  Gallery  is  the  best  place  in  the 
world  to  study  his  rare  individuality — I  may  add  also,  on 
account  of  the  engaging  personality  which  seems  to  breathe 
through  his  work.  Such  sentimental  impressions  are  no 
doubt  often  rudely  shaken  by  closer  knowledge,  but  they 
are  pleasant  to  indulge,  and  one  cannot  help  regarding 
Crivelli  as  a  man  of  knowledge  and  intellect,  of  charming 
manners,  refined  almost  to  fastidiousness,  delighting  in  all 
things  dainty  and  beautiful,  a  lover  of  animals  and  of  his 
kind.  If  he  did  not  love  animals,  at  least  he  loved  to  in- 
troduce them  into  his  pictures.  See  the  peacock  and  the 
smaller  bird  in  The  Annunciation^  the  Swallow  in  No.  724, 
and,  not  least,  the  ducks  in  the  Beato  Ferretti. 

There  arc,  of  course,  greater  painters  and  greater  men 
on  the  roll  of  artists,  but  few  who  have  more  marked  and 
more  varied  gifts ;  many  who  impress  more,  but  few  who 
amuse  so  much  ;  many  of  wider  range,  but  few  so  com- 
plete in  themselves. 


THE  CONCERT  ^ 

{Giorgione)  Jf^ 

WALTER  PATER 

BY  no  school  of  painters  have  the  necessary  limitations 
of  the  art  of  painting  been  so  unerringly  though  in- 
stinctively apprehended,  and  the  essence  of  what  is  pictorial 
in  a  picture  so  justly  conceived,  as  by  the  school  of  Venice; 
and  the  train  of  thought  suggested  in  what  has  been  now 
said  is,  perhaps,  a  not  unfitting  introduction  to  a  few  pages 
about  Giorgione,  who,  though  much  has  been  taken  by 
recent  criticism  from  what  was  reputed  to  be  his  work,  yet, 
more  entirely  than  any  other  painter,  sums  up,  in  what  we 
know  of  himself  and  his  art,  the  spirit  of  the  Venetian 
school. 

The  beginnings  of  Venetian  painting  link  themselves  to 
the  last,  stiff,  half-barbaric  splendours  of  Byzantine  decora- 
tion and  are  but  the  introduction  into  the  crust  of  marble 
and  gold  on  the  walls  of  the  Duomo  of  Murano,  or  of  Saint 
Mark's,  of  a  little  more  of  human  expression.  And 
throughout  the  course  of  its  later  development,  always  sub- 
ordinate to  architectural  effect,  the  work  of  the  Venetian 
school  never  escaped  from  the  influence  of  its  beginnings. 
Unassisted,  and  therefore  unperplexed,  by  naturalism,  relig- 


THE  CONCERT  21 

ious  mysticism,  philosophical  theories,  it  had  no  Giotto,  no 
Angelico,  no  Botticelli.  Exempt  from  the  stress  of  thought 
or  sentiment,  which  taxed  so  severely  the  resources  of  the 
generations  of  Florentine  artists,  those  earlier  Venetian 
painters, down  to  Carpaccio  and  the  Bellini,  seem  never  for 
a  moment  to  have  been  tempted  even  to  lose  sight  of  the 
scope  of  their  art  in  its  strictness,  or  to  forget  that  painting 
must  be  before  all  things  decorative,  a  thing  for  the  eye,  a 
space  of  colour  on  the  wall,  only  more  dexterously  blent 
than  the  marking  of  its  precious  stone  or  the  chance  inter- 
change of  sun  and  shade  upon  it — this,  to  begin  and  end 
with — whatever  higher  matter  of  thought,  or  poetry,  or 
religious  reverie  might  play  its  part  therein,  between.  At 
last,  with  final  mastery  of  all  the  technical  secrets  of  his 
art,  and  with  somewhat  more  than  "  a  spark  of  the  divine 
fire  to  his  share,"  comes  Giorgione.  He  is  the  inventor  of 
genre^  of  those  easily  movable  pictures  which  serve  for 
uses,  neither  of  devotion,  nor  of  allegorical  or  historical 
teaching — little  groups  of  real  men  and  women,  amid  con- 
gruous furniture  or  landscape — morsels  of  actual  life,  con- 
versation or  music,  or  play,  refined  upon  or  idealized,  till 
they  come  to  seem  like  glimpses  of  life  from  afar.  Those 
spaces  of  more  cunningly  blent  colour,  obediently  filling 
their  places,  hitherto,  in  a  mere  architectural  scheme, 
Giorgione  detaches  from  the  wall ;  he  frames  them  by  the 
hands  of  some  skilful  carver,  so  that  people  may  move 
them  readily  and  take  with  them  where  they  go,  like  a 
poem  in  manuscript,  or  a  musical  instrument,  t(j  be  used,  at 
will,  as  a  means  of  self-education,  stimulus  or  solace,  com- 


22  THE  CONCERT 

ing  like  an  animated  presence,  into  one's  cabinet,  to  enrich 
the  air  as  with  some  choice  aroma,  and,  like  persons,  live 
with  us,  for  a  day  or  a  lifetime.  Of  all  art  like  this,  art 
which  has  played  so  large  a  part  in  men's  culture  since  that 
time,  Giorgione  is  the  initiator.  Yet  in  him  too  that  old 
Venetian  clearness  or  justice,  in  the  apprehension  of  the 
essential  limitations  of  the  pictorial  art,  is  still  undisturbed  ; 
and,  while  he  interfuses  his  painted  work  with  a  high- 
strung  sort  of  poetry,  caught  directly  from  a  singularly  rich 
and  high-strung  sort  of  life,  yet  in  his  selection  of  subject, 
or  phase  of  subject,  in  the  subordination  of  mere  subject  to 
pictorial  design,  to  the  main  purpose  of  a  picture,  he  is 
typical  of  that  aspiration  of  all  the  arts  towards  music, 
which  I  have  endeavoured  to  explain, — towards  the  perfect 
identification  of  matter  and  form. 

Born  so  near  to  Titian,  though  a  little  before  him,  that 
these  two  companion  pupils  of  the  aged  Giovanni  Bellini 
may  almost  be  called  contemporaries,  Giorgione  stands  to 
Titian  in  something  like  the  relationship  of  Sordello  to 
Dante,  in  Mr.  Browning's  poem.  Titian,  when  he  leaves 
Bellini,  becomes,  in  turn,  the  pupil  of  Giorgione ;  he  lives 
in  constant  labour  more  than  sixty  years  after  Giorgione  is 
in  his  grave ;  and  with  such  fruit,  that  hardly  one  of  the 
greater  towns  of  Europe  is  without  some  fragment  of  it. 
But  the  slightly  older  man,  with  his  so  limited  actual  prod- 
uct (what  remains  to  us  of  it  seeming,  when  narrowly 
examined,  to  reduce  itself  to  almost  one  picture,  like 
Sordello's  one  fragment  of  lovely  verse),  yet  expresses,  in 
elementary  motive  and  principle,  that  spirit — itself  the  final 


THE  CONCERT  23 

acquisition  of  all  the  long  endeavours  of  Venetian  art — 
which  Titian  spreads  over  his  whole  life's  activity. 

And,  as  we  might  expect,  something  fabulous  and  illu- 
sive has  always  mingled  itself  in  the  brilliancy  of  Giorgi- 
one's  fame.  The  exact  relationship  to  him  of  many  works 
— drawings,  protraits,  painted  idylls — often  fascinating 
enough,  which  in  various  collections  went  by  his  name, 
was  from  the  first  uncertain.  Still,  six  or  eight  famous 
pictures  at  Dresden,  Florence  and  the  Louvre,  were  un- 
doubtingly,  attributed  to  him,  and  in  these,  if  anywhere, 
something  of  the  splendour  of  the  old  Venetian  humanity 
seemed  to  have  been  preserved.  But  of  those  six  or  eight 
famous  pictures  it  is  now  known  that  only  one  is  certainly 
from  Giorgione's  hand.  The  accomplished  science  of  the 
subject  has  come  at  last,  and,  as  in  other  instances,  has  not 
made  the  past  more  real  for  us,  but  assured  us  that  we 
possess  of  it  less  than  we  seemed  to  possess.  Much  of  the 
work  on  which  Giorgione's  immediate  fame  depended, 
work  done  for  instantaneous  effect,  in  all  probability  passed 
away  almost  within  his  own  age,  like  the  frescoes  on  the 
facade  of  the  fondaco  dei  Tedeuhi  at  Venice,  some  crimson 
traces  of  which,  however,  still  give  a  strange  additional 
touch  of  splendour  to  the  scene  of  the  Rialto.  And  there 
is  a  barrier  or  borderland,  a  period  about  the  middle  of  the 
ijixteenth  Century,  in  passing  through  which  the  tradition 
miscarries,  and  the  true  (outlines  of  Giorgione's  work  and 
person  become  obscured.  It  became  fashionable  for 
wealthy  lovers  of  art,  with  no  critical  standard  of  authentic- 
ity, to  collect  so-called  works  of  Giorgiunc,  and  a  multitude 


24  THE  CONCERT 

of  imitations  came  into  circulation.  And  now,  in  the 
"  new  Vasari,"  ^  the  great  traditional  reputation,  woven 
with  so  profuse  demand  on  men's  admiration,  has  been 
scrutinized  thread  by  thread ;  and  what  remains  of  the  most 
vivid  and  stimulating  of  Venetian  masters,  a  live  flame,  as 
it  seemed,  in  those  old  shadowy  times,  has  been  reduced 
almost  to  a  name  by  his  most  recent  critics. 

Yet  enough  remains  to  explain  why  the  legend  grew  up, 
above  the  name,  why  the  name  attached  itself,  in  many  in- 
stances, to  the  bravest  work  of  other  men.  The  Concert 
in  the  Pitti  Palace,  in  which  a  monk,  with  cowl  and  ton- 
sure, touches  the  keys  of  a  harpsichord,  while  a  clerk,  placed 
behind  him,  grasps  the  handle  of  a  viol,  and  a  third  with 
cap  and  plume,  seems  to  wait  upon  the  true  interval  for  be- 
ginning to  sing,  is  undoubtedly  Giorgione's.  The  outline 
of  the  lifted  finger,  the  trace  of  the  plume,  the  very  threads 
of  the  fine  linen,  which  fasten  themselves  on  the  memory, 
in  the  moment  before  they  are  lost  altogether  in  that  calm 
unearthly  glow,  the  skill  which  has  caught  the  waves  of 
wandering  sound,  and  fixed  them  for  ever  on  the  lips  and 
hands — these  are  indeed  the  master's  own ;  and  the  criticism 
which^  while  dismissing  so  much  hitherto  believed  to  be 
Giorgione's,  has  established  the  claims  of  this  one  picture, 
has  left  it  among  the  most  precious  things  in  the  world  of 
art. 

It  is  noticeable  that  the  "  distinction  "  of  this  Concert^ 
its  sustained  evenness  of  perfection,  alike  in  design,  in  ex- 
ecution, and   in   choice   of  personal   type,  becomes  for  the 

1  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle :  History  of  Fainting  in  North  Italy. 


THE  CONCERT  25 

"  new  Vasari  "  the  standard  of  Giorgione's  genuine  work. 
Finding  here  enough  to  explain  his  influence,  and  the  true 
seal  of  mastery,  its  authors  assign  to  Pellegrino  da  San  Dan- 
iele  the  Holy  Family  in  the  Louvre,  for  certain  points  in 
which  it  comes  short  of  that  standard,  but  which  will  hardly 
diminish  the  spectator's  enjoyment  of  a  singular  charm  of 
liquid  air,  with  which  the  whole  picture  seems  instinct,  fill- 
ing the  eyes  and  lips,  the  very  garments,  of  its  sacred  per- 
sonages, with  some  wind-searched  brightness  and  energy  ; 
of  which  fine  air  the  blue  peak,  clearly  defined  in  the  dis- 
tance, is,  as  it  were,  the  visible  pledge.  Similarly,  another 
favourite  picture  in  the  Louvre,  the  subject  of  a  sonnet  by 
a  poet  whose  own  painted  work  often  comes  to  mind  as  one 
ponders  over  these  precious  things — the  Fete  Champetre^ 
is  assigned  to  an  imitator  of  Sebastian  del  Piombo;  and  the 
Tempest^  in  the  Academy  at  Venice  (a  slighter  loss,  perhaps, 
though  not  without  its  pleasant  effect  of  clearing  weather, 
towards  the  left,  its  one  untouched  morsel),  to  Paris  Bor- 
done,  or  perhaps  to  "  some  advanced  craftsman  of  the  Six- 
teenth Century."  From  the  gallery  at  Dresden,  the  Knight 
embracing  a  Lady^  where  the  knight's  broken  gauntlets  seem 
to  mark  some  well-known  pause  in  a  story  we  would  will- 
ingly hear  the  rest  of,  is  conceded  to  "a  Brescian  hand," 
and  Jacob  meeting  Rachel^  to  a  pupil  of  Palma ;  and,  what- 
ever their  charm,  we  are  called  on  to  give  up  the  Ordeal  znd 
the  Finding  of  Moses  with  its  jewel-like  pools  of  water,  per- 
haps to  Bellini. 

Nor  has  the  criticism,  which  thus  so  freely  diminishes  the 
'This  picture  is  included  in  Love  in  Literature  and  Art.     Y..  S. 


26  THE  CONCERT 

number  of  his  authentic  works,  added  anything  important 
to  the  well-known  outline  of  the  life  and  personality  of  the 
man :  only,  it  has  fixed  one  or  two  dates,  one  or  two  cir- 
cumstances, a  little  more  exactly.  Giorgione  was  born  be- 
fore the  year  1477,  and  spent  his  childhood  at  Castelfranco, 
where  the  last  crags  of  the  Venetian  Alps  break  down  ro- 
mantically, with  something  of  parklike  grace,  to  the  plain. 
A  natural  child  of  the  family  of  the  Barbarelli  by  a  peasant- 
girl  of  Vedelago,  he  finds  his  way  early  into  the  circle  of 
notable  persons — people  of  courtesy ;  and  becomes  initiated 
into  those  differences  of  personal  type,  manner,  and  even 
of  dress,  which  are  best  understood  there — that  "distinc- 
tion "  of  the  Concert  of  the  Pitti  Palace.  Not  far  from  his 
home  lives  Catherine  of  Cornaro  formerly  Queen  of 
Cyprus ;  and  up  in  the  towers  which  still  remain,  Tuzio 
Costanzo,  the  famous  condottiere — a  picturesque  remnant  of 
mediaeval  manners,  in  a  civilization  rapidly  changing. 
Giorgione  paints  their  portraits;  and  when  Tuzio's  son, 
Matteo,  dies  in  early  youth,  adorns  in  his  memory  a  chapel 
in  the  church  of  Castelfranco,  painting  on  this  occasion 
perhaps,  the  altar-piece,  foremost  among  his  authentic 
works,  still  to  be  seen  there,  with  the  figure  of  the  warrior- 
saint,  Liberale,  of  which  the  original  little  study  in  oil,  with 
the  delicately  gleaming,  silver-grey  armour,  is  one  of  the 
greater  treasures  of  the  National  Gallery,  and  in  which,  as 
in  some  other  knightly  personages  attributed  to  him,  people 
have  supposed  the  likeness  of  his  own  presumably  gracious 
presence.  Thither,  at  last,  he  is  himself  brought  home 
from  Venice,  early  dead,  but  celebrated.     It  happened,  about 


THE  CONCERT  27 

his  thirty-fourth  year,  that  in  one  of  those  parties  at  which 
he  entertained  his  friends  with  music,  he  met  a  certain  lady 
of  whom  he  became  greatly  enamoured,  and  "  they  rejoiced 
greatly,"  says  Vasari,  "  the  one  and  the  other,  in  their 
loves."  And  two  quite  different  legends  concerning  it 
agree  in  this,  that  it  was  through  this  lady  he  came  by  his 
death  :  Ridolii  relating  that,  being  robbed  of  her  by  one  of 
his  pupils,  he  died  of  grief  at  the  double  treason  ; — Vasari, 
that  she  being  secretly  stricken  of  the  plague,  and  he  ma- 
king his  visits  to  her  as  usual,  he  took  the  sickness  from  her 
mortally,  along  with  her  kisses,  and  so  briefly  departed. 

But,  although  the  number  of  Giorgione's  extant  works 
has  been  thus  limited  by  recent  criticism,  all  is  not  done 
when  the  real  and  the  traditional  elements  in  what  concerns 
him  have  been  discriminated  ;  for,  in  what  is  connected 
with  a  great  name,  much  that  is  not  real  is  often  very  stim- 
ulating; and,  for  the  aesthetic  philosopher,  over  and  above 
the  real  Giorgione  and  his  authentic  extant  works,  there  re- 
mains the  Giorgionesque  also — an  influence,  a  spirit,  a  type  in 
art,  active  in  men  so  different  as  those  to  whom  many  of  his 
supposed  works  are  really  assignable — a  veritable  school, 
which  grew  together  out  of  all  those  fascinating  works 
rightly  or  wrongly  attributed  to  him  ;  out  of  many  copies 
from,  or  variations  on  him,  by  unknown  or  uncertain 
workmen,  whose  drawings  and  designs  were,  for  various 
reasons,  prized  as  his;  out  uf  the  immediate  impression  he 
made  upon  his  contemporaries,  and  with  which  he  con- 
tinued in  mcal§  jiiinds  ;  out  of  many  traditions  of  subject 
and  treatment,  which  really  descend  from  him  to  our  own 


28  THE  CONCERT 

time,  and  by  retracing  which  we  fill  out  the  original  image ; 
Giorgione  thus  becoming  a  sort  of  impersonation  of  Venice 
itself,  its  projected  reflex  or  ideal,  all  that  was  intense  or  de- 
sirable in  it  thus  crystallizing  about  the  memory  of  this  won- 
derful young  man. 

And  now,  finally,  let  me  illustrate  some  of  the  character- 
istics of  this  School  of  Giorgione^  as  we  may  call  it,  which, 
for  most  of  us,  notwithstanding  all  that  negative  criticism 
of  the  "new  Vasari,"  will  still  identify  itself  with  those 
famous  pictures  at  Florence,  Dresden  and  Paris ;  in  which 
a  certain  artistic  ideal  is  defined  for  us — the  conception  of 
a  peculiar  aim  and  procedure  in  art,  which  we  may  under- 
stand as  the  Giorgionesque,  wherever  we  find  it,  whether  in 
Venetian  work  generally,  or  in  work  of  our  own  time — and 
of  which  the  Concert^  that  undoubted  work  of  Giorgione  in 
the  Pitti  Palace,  is  the  typical  instance,  and  a  pledge  authen- 
ticating the  connexion  of  the  school  with  the  master. 

I  have  spoken  of  a  certain  interpenetration  of  the  matter 
or  subject  of  a  work  of  art  with  the  form  of  it,  a  condition 
realized  absolutely  only  in  music,  as  the  condition  to  which 
every  form  of  art  is  perpetually  aspiring.  In  the  art  of 
painting,  the  attainment  of  this  ideal  condition,  this  perfect 
interpenetration  of  the  subject  with  colour  and  design,  de- 
pends, of  course,  in  great  measure,  on  dexterous  choice  of 
that  subject,  or  phase  of  subject ;  and  such  choice  is  one 
of  the  secrets  of  Giorgione's  school.  It  is  the  school  of 
gentle,  and  employs  itself  mainly  with  "  painted  idylls,"  but, 
in  the  production  of  this  pictorial  poetry,  exercises  a  won- 
derful tact  in  the  selecting  of  such  matter  as  lends  itself 


THE  CONCERT  29 

most  readily  and  entirely  to  pictorial  form,  to  complete  ex- 
pression by  drawing  and  colour.  For  although  its  produc- 
tions are  painted  poems,  they  belong  to  a  sort  of  poetry 
which  tells  itself  without  an  articulated  story.  The  master 
is  pre-eminent  for  the  resolution,  the  ease  and  quickness, 
with  which  he  reproduces  instantaneous  motion — the 
lacing-on  of  armour,  with  the  head  bent  back  so  stately — 
the  fainting  lady — the  embrace,  rapid  as  the  kiss  caught, 
with  death  itself,  from  dying  lips — the  momentary  conjunc- 
tion of  mirrors  and  polished  armour  and  still  water,  by  which 
all  the  sides  of  a  solid  image  are  presented  at  once,  solving 
that  casuistical  question  whether  painting  can  present  an 
object  as  completely  as  sculpture.  The  sudden  act,  the 
rapid  transition  of  thought,  the  passing  expression — this,  he 
arrests  with  that  vivacity  which  Vasari  has  attributed  to 
him,  il  fuQCQ  Giorgionesco,  as  he  terms  it.  Now  it  is  part 
of  the  ideality  of  the  highest  sort  of  dramatic  poetry,  that  it 
presents  us  with  a  kind  of  profoundly  significant  and  ani- 
mated instants,  a  mere  gesture,  a  look,  a  smile,  perhaps — 
some  brief  and  wholly  concrete  moment — into  which,  how- 
ever, all  the  motives,  all  the  interests  and  effects  of  a  long 
history,  have  condensed  themselves,  and  which  seem  to 
absorb  past  and  future  in  an  intense  consciousness  of  the 
present.  Such  ideal  instants  the  school  of  Giorgionc 
selects,  with  its  admirable  tact,  from  that  feverish,  tumultu- 
ously  coloured  life  of  the  old  citizens  of  Venice — exquisite 
pauses  in  time,  in  which,  arrested  thus,  we  seem  to  be 
spectators  of  all  the  fulness  of  existence,  and  which  arc 
like  bomc  consummate  extract  or  (juintessencc  of  lif«- 


30  THE  CONCERT 

It  is  to  the  law  or  condition  of  music,  as  I  said,  that  all 
art  like  this  is  really  aspiring  ;  and,  in  the  school  of  Gior- 
gione,  the  perfect  moments  of  music  itself,  the  making  or 
hearing  of  music,  song  or  its  accompaniment,  are  them- 
selves prominent  as  subjects.  On  that  background  of  the 
silence  of  Venice,  which  the  visitor  there  finds  so  impress- 
ive, the  world  of  Italian  music  was  then  forming.  In 
choice  of  subject,  as  in  all  besides,  the  Concert  of  the  Pitti 
Palace  is  typical  of  all  that  Giorgione,  himself  an  admirable 
musician,  touched  with  his  influence ;  and  in  sketch  or 
finished  picture,  in  various  collections,  we  may  follow  it 
through  many  intricate  variations — men  fainting  at  music, 
music  heard  at  the  pool-side  while  people  fish,  or  mingled 
with  the  sound  of  the  pitcher  in  the  well,  or  heard  across 
running  water,  or  among  the  flocks  ;  the  tuning  of  instru- 
ments— people  with  intent  faces,  as  if  listening,  like  those 
described  by  Plato  in  an  ingenious  passage,  to  detect  the 
smallest  interval  of  musical  sound,  the  smallest  undulation 
in  the  air,  or  feeling  for  music  in  thought  on  a  stringless 
instrument,  ear  and  finger  refining  themselves  infinitely,  in 
the  appetite  for  sweet  sound — a  momentary  touch  of  an  in- 
strument in  the  twilight,  as  one  passes  through  some  un- 
familiar room,  in  a  chance  company. 

In  such  favourite  incidents,  then,  of  Giorgione's  school, 
music  or  music-like  intervals  in  our  existence,  life  itself  is 
conceived  as  a  sort  of  listening — listening  to  music,  to  the 
reading  of  Bandello's  novels,  to  the  sound  of  water,  to  time 
as  it  flies.  Often  such  moments  are  really  our  moments  of 
plav,  and  we  are  surprised  at  the  unexpected  blessedness  of 


THE  CONCERT  3I 

what  may  seem  our  least  important  part  of  time ;  not 
merely  because  play  is  in  many  instances  that  to  which 
people  really  apply  their  own  best  powers,  but  also  because 
at  such  times,  the  stress  of  our  servile,  everyday  attentive- 
ness  being  relaxed,  the  happier  powers  in  things  without  us 
are  permitted  free  passage,  and  have  their  way  with  us. 
And  so,  from  music,  the  school  of  Giorgione  passes  often 
to  the  play  which  is  like  music  ;  to  those  masques  in  which 
men  avowedly  do  but  play  at  real  life,  like  children  "dress- 
ing-up,"  disguised  in  the  strange  old  Italian  dresses,  parti- 
coloured, or  fantastic  with  embroidery  and  furs,  of  which 
the  master  was  so  curious  a  designer,  and  which,  above  all 
the  spotless  white  linen  at  wrist  and  throat,  he  painted  so 
dexterously. 

And  when  people  are  happy  in  this  thirsty  land,  water 
will  not  be  far  off;  and  in  the  school  of  Giorgione,  the 
presence  of  water — the  well,  or  marble-rimmed  pool,  the 
drawing  or  pouring  of  water,  as  the  woman  pours  it  from  a 
pitcher  with  her  jewelled  hands  in  the  Fete  ChampUre^  lis- 
tening, perhaps,  to  the  cool  sound  as  it  falls,  blent  with  the 
music  of  the  pipes — is  as  characteristic,  and  almost  as  sug- 
gestive, as  that  of  music  itself.  And  the  landscape  feels, 
and  is  glad  of  it  also — a  landscape  full  of  clearness,  of  the 
effects  of  water,  of  fresh  rain  newly  passed  through  the  air, 
and  collected  into  the  grassy  channels  ;  the  air,  too,  in  the 
school  of  Giorgione,  seeming  as  vivid  as  the  people  who 
breathe  it,  and  literally  empyrean,  all  impurities  being  burnt 
out  of  it,  and  no  taint,  no  floating  particle  of  anything  but 
its  fjwn  proper  elements  allowed  to  subsist  within  it. 


32  THE  CONCERT 

Its  scenery  is  such  as  in  England  we  call  "  park  scenery," 
with  some  elusive  refinement  felt  about  the  rustic  buildings, 
the  choice  grass,  the  grouped  trees,  the  undulations  deftly 
economized  for  graceful  effect.  Only,  in  Italy  all  natural 
things  are,  as  it  were,  woven  through  and  through  with  gold 
thread,  even  the  cypress  revealing  it  among  the  folds  of  its 
blackness.  And  it  is  with  gold  dust,  or  gold  thread,  that 
these  Venetian  painters  seem  to  work,  spinning  in  fine  fila- 
ments, through  the  solemn  human  flesh,  away  into  the 
white  plastered  walls  of  the  thatched  huts.  The  harsher 
details  of  the  mountains  recede  to  a  harmonious  distance, 
the  one  peak  of  rich  blue  above  the  horizon  remaining  but 
as  the  visible  warrant  of  that  due  coolness  which  is  all  we 
need  ask  here  of  the  Alps,  with  their  dark  rains  and  streams. 
Yet  what  real,  airy  space,  as  the  eye  passes  from  level  to 
level,  through  the  long-drawn  valley  in  which  Jacob  em- 
braces Rachel  among  the  flocks !  Nowhere  is  there  a  truer 
landscape  and  persons — of  the  human  image  and  its  acces- 
sories— already  noticed  as  characteristic  of  the  Venetian 
school,  so  that,  in  it,  neither  personage  nor  scenery  is  ever 
a  mere  pretext  for  the  other. 

Something  like  this  seems  to  me  to  be  the  vraie  verite 
about  Giorgione,  if  I  may  adopt  a  serviceable  expression  by 
which  the  French  recognize  those  more  liberal  and  durable 
impressions  which,  in  respect  of  any  really  considerable 
person  or  subject,  anything  that  has  at  all  intricately  occu- 
pied men's  attention,  lie  beyond,  and  must  supplement,  the 
narrower  range  of  the  strictly  ascertained  facts  about  it. 
In  this,  Giorgione  is  but  an  illustration  of  a  valuable  gen- 


THE   CONCERT  33 

eral  caution  we  may  abide  bv  in  all  criticism.  As  regards 
Giorgione  himself,  we  have  indeed  to  take  note  of  all  those 
negations  and  exceptions,  bv  which,  at  first  sight,  a  "new 
Vasari "  seems  merely  to  have  confused  our  apprehension 
of  a  delightfuK  object,  to  have  explained  away  out  of  our 
inheritance  from  past  time  what  seemed  of  high  value  there. 
Yet  it  is  not  with  a  full  understanding  even  of  those  excep- 
tions that  one  can  leave  off  just  at  this  point.  Properly 
qualified,  such  exceptions  are  but  a  salt  of  genuineness  in 
our  knowledge ;  and  beyond  all  these  strictly  ascertained 
facts,  we  must  take  note  of  that  indirect  influence  by  which 
one  like  Giorgione,  for  instance,  enlarges  his  permanent 
efficacy  and  really  makes  himself  felt  in  our  culture.  In  a 
just  impression  of  that,  is  the  essential  truth,  the  vraid  v'eriti 
concerning  him. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

(^Raphael ) 

F.  A.  GRUYER 

AMONG  the  principal  European  galleries,  the  Louvre 
is  one  of  those  in  which  Raphael  is  perhaps  best  rep- 
resented from  the  point  of  view  of  the  progress  of  his  work. 
There,  it  is  true,  we  do  not  find  pictures  of  such  brilliant 
splendour  as  the  Sistine  Madonna^  the  Virgin  with  the  Fish^ 
the  Madonna  della  Sedia  or  the  Violin  Player ;  but  there  we 
see  a  series  of  paintings  of  rare  beauty,  which,  extending 
from  1506  to  1 5 18,  embrace  the  whole  active  period  of  that 
life  that  was  so  full  and  so  soon  ended.  Thus  in  turn  ap- 
pear before  our  eyes  the  St.  George  and  the  Little  St.  Michael 
(1506),  the  Belle  Jardiniere  (1507),  the  Portrait  of  a  Toung 
Man  (1508  or  1509),  the  Virgin  with  the  Blue  Diadem 
(15 1 2),  the  Portrait  of  Balthazar  Cas  tig  Hone  (15 15),  the 
Large  St.  Michael^  and  the  Large  Holy  Family  (15 18). 

St.  George. — St.  George,  on  horseback,  fights  with  the 
legendary  dragon.  He  has  already  broken  his  lance  against 
it,  and  is  about  to  strike  it  with  his  sword.  This  is 
quite  a  small  picture,  but  singularly  great  in  its  character, 
thought  and  style.  The  saintly  warrior,  clad  in  steel  armour 
and  wearing  a  plumed  helmet,  rises  in  his  stirrups,  reins 
t)ack  his  charger  with  his  left  band,  and  raises  his  dght. 


hi.     i.Lnlii.l.    AMj    TIIL     MtAC.ON. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON         35 

armed  with  a  sword,  against  the  monster  that  is  pursuing 
him,  and  on  which  he  casts  a  bacicward  glance  of  contempt. 
This  Hgure  is  one  of  singular  pride  and  elegance.  The 
face  is  almost  that  of  a  virgin.  Minerva  would  willingly 
recognize  it  as  her  own,  and  our  Joan  of  Arc  could  put  up 
with  it  wonderfully  well.  Notwithstanding  the  impetuous 
speed  (the  rapidity  of  which  is  shown  by  the  drapery  of  the 
mantle  which  is  violently  agitated),  and  notwithstanding  the 
imminence  of  the  danger,  the  Christian  hero  preserves  a 
regal  tranquillity.  He  carries  with  him  something  of  the 
power  and  majesty  of  a  God.  The  issue  of  the  combat  is 
not  in  doubt.  The  horse  on  its  side  is  no  less  eminent  in 
beauty.  It  recalls  the  admirable  horses  of  the  Panathena^a  : 
it  has  the  same  nobility,  with  something  mystical  in  addition 
that  belongs  peculiarly  to  the  Renaissance.  What  Raphael 
had  already  seen  of  Antiquity  made  him  feel  in  advance 
what  he  did  not  already  know,  and  even  what  he  was  never 
to  know.  This  white  horse  with  rose  harness,  galloping 
across  the  green  meadow,  closely  pressed  by  the  dragon 
whose  poisonous  breath  it  scents,  rearing  under  the  restraint 
of  its  rider,  raising  its  head  and  its  eyes  to  Heaven,  in 
prayer  and  belief,  as  one  might  be  tempted  to  say,  so 
strongly  does  it  seem  to  be  imbued  with  fervour  and  poesy, 
— is  it  not  at  once  a  Classic  reminiscence  and  a  personal 
inspiration  ?  The  monster  is  no  less  remarkable.  It  is  the 
winged  dragon  of  Fable,  with  savage  jaws,  vampire  wings, 
paws  armed  with  menacing  claws  and  tail  with  coils  like  a 
python.  Would  not  one  be  inclined  to  say,  so  greatly  docs 
the   painting   here   assume   splendour   and  solidity,  that  this 


36        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

was  one  of  those  beautiful  enamels  of  the  beginning  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century,  preserved  in  the  cabinets  of  our  Gallery 
of  Apollo  ?  Finally,  for  the  background  of  this  picture,  we 
have  a  landscape  with  suave  and  harmoniously  cadenced 
lines,  fresh,  springlike,  and  virginal,  in  which  the  verdurous 
valleys  melt  into  the  azure  distances  of  the  mountains  which 
themselves  fade  and  are  lost  in  the  blue  of  a  pure  and 
luminous  sky.  There  is  nothing  present  that  is  not  of  ex- 
quisite grace  and  delicious  sentiment,  even  to  the  little  fe- 
male figure,  robed  in  rose,  and  fleeing  in  the  distance. 
Thus,  everything  in  this  picture  is  of  the  very  first  order. 
Under  modest  appearances,  the  forms  have  a  firmness  of 
accentuation  which  is  the  work  no  longer  of  a  student  but 
of  a  master.  As  for  the  colour,  limpid,  transparent,  and  of 
a  tempered  harmony,  it  reveals  a  state  of  preservation  that 
nearly  four  centuries  have  not  been  able  to  injure. 

It  is  said  that  this  picture  dates  from  1504:  this  is  an 
error.  It  is  added  that  it  is  after  the  manner  of  Perugino : 
this  is  also  an  error.  The  date  of  the  St.  George  of  the 
Louvre  is  1506.  In  it  we  recognize  the  spirit  and  the  hand 
of  a  painter  who  has  already  attained  full  independence. 

In  1504,  Raphael  who  had  just  left  Perugino's  school, 
was  still  confined  within  the  picturesque  world  fashioned  by 
his  master.  It  is  true  that  he  only  remained  in  it  out  of 
pure  deference,  and  that  he  managed  to  dwell  there  as  if  he 
were  in  his  own  home.  Witness  the  Sposalizio  borrowed 
almost  line  for  line  from  Perugino  but  invested  with  a  new 
grace  and  transfigured  by  a  new  mind,  which  set  the  picture 
of  the  pupil  on  a  level  high  above  that  of  the  master.     As 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON         37 

for  the  St.  Gcorge^  nothing  in  it  is  left  that  smells  of  the 
school ;  there  is  no  longer  any  imitation  in  it ;  everything 
in  it  reveals  a  new  art,  like  a  rising  sun.  In  it  Raphael 
shows  himself  completely  liberated,  without  any  sort  of  re- 
volt or  violence,  and  possessed  of  the  calm  and  respect  that 
beht  power.  Between  the  St.  George  and  the  Sposalizio 
there  is  a  whole  world.  To  set  the  same  date  to  these  two 
pictures  appears  to  us  impossible.  This,  however,  is  what 
hitheno  has  been  done  by  saying  that  Raphael  painted  the 
St.  George  during  the  very  short  stay  he  made  at  Urbino  in 
the  course  of  the  year  1504.  Raphael  then  went  to  his 
native  town  to  pay  homage  to  Guidobaldo,  whom  Julius  II. 
had  just  nominated  Gonfalonier  of  the  Church  and  reinstated 
in  theduchy  of  Urbino.  The  genius  of  the  Renaissance,  with 
its  most  illustrious  representatives,  was  sitting  at  the  hearth 
of  the  noblest  of  men  and  the  most  amiable  of  women. 
Although  still  very  young,  Raphael  had  found  his  place 
there;  but  he  did  not  tarry.  Furnished  with  a  letter  by 
Elizabeth  Gonzaga  for  Soderini,  he  hastened  towards  Flor- 
ence, there  to  ripen  his  talent  by  contact  with  the  greatest 
artists  whom  Italv  had  yet  possessed. 

Let  us  now  place  ourselves  in  1506  and  look  at  our  St. 
George.  After  a  two  years'  abode  in  Tuscany,  Raphael  is 
found  again  in  Urbino  surrounded  with  the  rays  of  his 
youthful  glory.  The  plague  had  desolated  Umbria,  and 
before  going  forward  in  his  life,  he  had  con\c  again  to  see 
his  friends  and  relatives,  and  to  pay  homage  to  them  with 
the  celebrated  works  that  he  left  behind  him. 

At   the  beginning   of  the  year  1506,  the  Abbot  of  (ilas- 


38         ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

tonbury  and  Gilbert  Talbot,  ambassadors  from  Henry 
VIII.  to  Julius  II.  went  to  Urbino  to  invest  Guidobaldo 
with  the  Order  of  the  Garter.  Raphael,  being  then  in  his 
natal  town,  had  at  once  to  paint  a  St.  George  for  the  King 
of  England,  the  Order  of  the  Garter  as  well  as  the  realm  of 
England  being  placed  under  the  patronage  of  the  legendary 
hero.  In  this  picture,  the  warrior  who  wears  the  Garter 
below  his  right  knee,  faces  the  monster  and  pierces  him 
with  his  lance.  The  little  female  figure  that  in  our  picture 
is  fleeing  in  the  distance,  is  kneeling  in  the  background  of 
the  other.  These  two  paintings,  executed  with  great  pre- 
cision, are  exactly  in  the  same  spirit  and  the  same  style. 
They  are  almost  identical,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  they 
were  executed  almost  at  the  same  time.  If  you  put  these 
two  St.  Georges  side  by  side,  you  will  recognize  that  the 
more  beautiful  of  the  two  is  not  the  one  that  has  the  Garter, 
and  that  ours  is  more  strongly  conceived  and  more  broadly 
painted.  Now,  when  an  artist  like  Raphael  repeats  one  of 
his  pictures,  it  is  always  in  order  to  aggrandize  its  character 
and  never  to  lessen  its  expression.  Raphael  therefore 
painted  our  St.  George  after  the  one  he  had  already  painted 
for  the  King  of  England.  The  date  1506  being  certain  for 
the  St.  George  with  the  Garter — nobody  disputes  this — that 
date  should  also  be  attributed  to  the  St.  George  in  the  Louvre. 
If  you  have  the  slightest  lingering  doubt  on  this  point  go 
to  the  Uffize  Gallery  and  compare  the  two  preliminary 
sketches  for  these  pictures.  They  are  by  the  same  pen, 
drawn  in  the  same  manner  and  almost  at  the  same  hour. 
You  will   find  in  both  the   same   youthful  ardour   and  the 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON         39 

same  sureness  of  hand ;  but  you  will  notice  a  very  notable 
improvement  in  the  sketch  for  the  picture  now  in  the 
Louvre.  It  is  probable  that  Guidobaldo,  enraptured  with 
the  picture  that  he  sent  to  the  King  of  England,  ordered 
from  Raphael  a  second  for  himself,  and  the  artist,  having 
more  mastery  over  his  subject  than  at  first,  designed  and 
painted  the  St.  George  of  our  Museum.  What  became  of  it 
after  the  dispersion  of  the  collections  gathered  together  by 
the  Montcfcltri  in  the  Urbino  palace  ?  Nobody  knows, 
until  the  day  when  it  found  a  place  in  Mazarin's  cabinet, 
whence  it  passed  into  the  gallery  of  Louis  XIV.  Since 
then  it  has  belonged  to  France. 

What  a  beautiful  subject  for  painting  is  this  subject  of  St. 
George  !  Historic  and  legendary  at  the  same  time,  born  of 
Christian  antiquity,  aggrandized  by  the  Middle  Ages  and  al- 
most transfigured  into  an  archangel,  to  the  Renaissance  it 
opens  the  infinite  horizons  of  the  earth  and  of  the  sky 
confounded  in  one  vision !  King  or  governor  of  Cappa- 
docia,  and  martyred  at  Nicomedia  under  Diocletian,  whose 
armies  he  had  commanded,  St.  George  immediately  became 
the  patron  of  warriors  and  the  great  saint  of  the  Greek 
church.  It  was  particularly  in  the  Orient  and  during  the 
Crusades  that  he  revealed  himself  to  the  Occident.  St. 
George  appeared  to  Robert  Guiscard's  troops  under  the 
walls  of  Antioch,  and  fought  by  the  side  of  Richard  Coeur 
de  Lion  at  Cxsarea,  Jaffa  and  before  Ascalon.  Thence- 
forth he  became  the  special  patron  of  England.  The 
national  Council  of  Oxford,  in  1222,  decided  that  his  festi- 
val   should   be    obligatory   throughout   the    realm,  and  the 


40        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

Order  of  the  Garter,  founded  by  Edward  III.  in  1330,  was 
placed  under  his  invocation.  After  so  many  apparitions 
and  prodigies,  this  heroic  figure  had  assumed  proportions 
that  surpassed  the  ordinary  measure  of  saints.  Like 
Michael  the  Archangel,  it  was  the  Devil  himself  whom  it 
was  St.  George's  mission  to  fight  and  to  conquer.  Thus 
transported  into  the  supernatural  world,  on  a  mettlesome 
horse,  he  dashes  against  the  enemy  of  the  human  race, 
against  Satan  metamorphosed  into  a  dragon;  and,  a  new 
Perseus,  he  also  has  his  Andromeda.  Following  the  ex- 
ample of  Antiquity,  whose  anthropomorphism  personified 
cities  and  provinces,  waters  and  woods,  the  Renaissance 
symbolized,  by  a  virgin,  Cappadocia  torn  by  St.  George  from 
idolatry,  that  is  to  say  from  Hell.  We  see  this  virgin, 
sometimes  praying  and  sometimes  fleeing  before  the  mon- 
ster, become  one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  saint.  We 
have  pointed  her  out  in  the  St.  George  with  the  Garter  as 
well  as  in  the  St.  George  in  the  Louvre.  It  must  be  repeated 
that  these  two  pictures  are  brethren,  they  have  exactly  the 
same  age,  both  belonging  to  the  year  1506. 


THE  HOLY  FAMILY 
{Murillo) 

HENRY   JOUIN 

THE  life  of  an  artist,  and  a  great  artist,  without  roman- 
tic experiences,  is  not  this  a  prodigy  ?  And,  above 
all,  that  he  should  be  a  Spanish  master !  Such  was,  how- 
ever, the  life  of  Murillo.  He  was  born,  he  worked  and  he 
died.  He  was  born  at  Seville,  like  Velasquez,  who  was  to 
be  his  friend  and  counsellor.  Unconscious  of  his  strength, 
as  well  as  of  his  tastes,  Murillo,  from  his  youth,  illumined 
canvases  of  no  value  which  he  hurried  away  to  the  New 
"World.  This  obscure  labour  procured  him  bread.  But 
his  mind  worked.  Each  day  brought  to  the  young  man 
some  new  light.  He  has  a  confused  revelation  of  his 
future.  What  is  it  to  him  to  have  merely  technical  skill, 
when  others  know  how  to  fix  for  centuries  the  radiant 
visions  they  see  ?  Without  fortune,  without  help,  without 
guidance,  Bartolome  Esteban  searched  vainly  for  the  path 
that  he  should  follow.  One  of  his  own  relatives,  Juan  del 
Castillo,  a  good  professor,  initiated  him  into  the  first  rudi- 
ments of  painting  ;  and  then,  having  given  these  very  in- 
sufficient lessons,  went  to  Cadiz.  Murillo  was  beginning 
to  be  doubtful  of  the  future,  when  the  painter  Picdro  y 
Moya  passed  through  Seville. 


42  THE  HOLY  FAMILY 

Moya  was  returning  from  London  to  Grenada.  Moya 
had  fallen  under  Van  Dyck's  influence  in  London.  He 
showed  one  of  his  canvases  to  Murillo,  spoke  to  him  of  his 
master,  told  him  of  all  he  had  learned,  and  confided  his 
schemes  to  him.  This  was  a  ray  of  light  to  the  young 
painter.  To  see  Van  Dyck,  to  listen  to  him,  and  to  adopt 
him  for  his  master,  was  Murillo's  dream ;  and,  without  any 
hesitation,  he  set  himself  the  task  of  realizing  the  sum  nec- 
essary for  a  voyage  to  London.  Vain  project !  Van 
Dyck  died  in  the  meantime  and  Murillo  heard  the  news 
while  he  was  still  in  Seville. 

Should  he  despair  ?  London  without  Van  Dyck  had  no 
attractions  for  our  painter;  but  would  not  Italy  furnish  him 
some  compensation  for  the  loss  of  the  Flemish  master  whose 
disciple  he  had  wished  to  become  ?  Could  not  he,  when 
once  away,  visit  Flanders  and  Holland  ?  And,  asking  him- 
self these  questions,  he  discovered  a  double  stream  in  his 
thought.  Subjects  of  pure  imagination  charmed  him,  with- 
out any  doubt,  but  he  experienced  an  almost  equal  attrac- 
tion for  popular  scenes  which  unfolded  themselves  every 
day  and  every  hour  beneath  the  careless  glance  of  the 
pedestrian.  What  we  never  see,  the  painter  perceived  and 
remembered.  A  beggar,  a  wretch,  or  a  lame  man  are 
repulsive  to  us,  and  we  turn  our  eyes  away  from  these  un- 
fortunate beings ;  the  mother  who  cares  for  her  ragged 
child  upon  the  threshold  of  his  house,  an  ordinary  man 
cannot  notice  without  disgust.  The  Dutch  and  Flemish 
have  less  disdain  for  this  kind  of  subject.  Murillo  felt 
himself  of  their  race  by  his  pleasure  in  looking  at  pictures 


Tilt.    iiMi.r    K.\  Mil  \ . 


THE  HOLY  FAMILY  43 

of  common  life  and  finding  them  agreeable.  It  was  then 
settled.     Our  young  man  would  make  a  tour  of  Europe. 

Conceived  by  a  greater  than  he,  other  great  projects  have 
had  the  fate  of  castles  in  the  air !  But  the  galleons  of 
America  had  always  a  few  piastres  to  pay  for  the  dozens  of 
images  which  they  wanted  to  sell  to  not  particular  popula- 
tions of  iMexico  and  Peru.  Murillo  worked  for  the  ship- 
owners, accumulating  piastres  upon  piastres,  and,  soon,  in 
possession  of  a  good  round  sum,  he  started  for  Italy. 

His  first  stop  was  Madrid.  It  was  also  the  last !  This 
was  in  1643.  iMurillo  was  twenty-five.  Velasquez,  con- 
sidered at  this  period  the  first  painter  of  Spain,  lived  in 
Madrid  on  familiar  terms  with  the  King.  He  was,  one 
must  remember,  a  compatriot  of  Murillo.  With  extreme 
kindness,  he  welcomed  the  young  man  who  came  to  him 
and  retained  him  by  those  masterpieces  with  which  the 
Escurial  was  peopled.  The  painter  of  Philip  IV.  had  seen 
Italy,  and  Rubens  was  not  a  stranger  to  him.  Velasquez 
was  older  than  Murillo  by  about  twenty  years,  and  in  full 
possession  of  his  strong  and  distinguished  genius.  Murillo 
saw  that  he  had  no  need  to  go  farther  than  the  Escurial. 
In  this  rich  palace,  Titian,  Rubens,  Van  Dyck  and  Ribera 
exhibited  their  greatest  works;  and  Velasquez  gave  Murillo 
his  authoritative  commentary  upon  these  robust  masters. 
Murillo  remained. 

Two  years  passed.  In  1645,  ^^^  painter  of  Seville  re- 
appeared among  his  fellow-citizens.  This  time  he  was 
equipped;  full  of  enthusiasm,  rich  in  knowledge,  and  gifted 
with  thought,  energy  and  facility,  and  for  thirty-seven  years 


44  THE  HOLY  FAMILY 

without  ever  leaving  his  native  city,  he  never  ceased  pro- 
ducing with  a  fertility  full  of  ease  and  distinction. 

I  am  mistaken.  Murillo  consented  to  go  one  day  to 
Cadiz.  He  was  to  paint  upon  the  high  altar  of  the  con- 
vent de  los  Capuchinos  an  important  picture, — the  marriage 
of  Saint  Catherine.  Mounted  upon  the  scaffolding  above 
the  altar,  in  the  fervour  of  his  composition,  he  forgot  that 
the  space  was  restricted,  and  he  fell.  Seriously  wounded, 
he  returned  to  Seville  where  he  died  on  April  3rd,  1682, 
after  cruel  sufferings. 

"  Heureux  qui  natt  et  meurt  dans  la  meme  maison". 

Such  was  Murillo's  fate.  And  if  we  set  aside  the  trials 
of  his  last  months,  we  can  count  nothing  but  happy  days  in 
the  painter's  life.  Fortune  smiled  upon  him  from  the  age 
of  thirty  years.  In  1648,  his  reputation  enabled  him  to 
gain  the  hand  of  Dona  Beatrix  de  Calabrera  y  Sotomayor, 
a  noble  and  rich  lady  of  the  town  of  Pilas. 

Without  a  rival  in  his  deserved  favour,  he  attacked  with 
equal  certainty  of  touch  scenes  of  genre,  portraits,  religious 
compositions  and  even  landscapes.  Murillo — a  rare  case — 
was  always  growing.  His  last  works  are  his  most  perfect. 
While  Ribera  never  saw  anything  during  the  whole  of  his 
life  but  motives  for  severe,  sombre  and  sometimes  mournful 
pictures,  Murillo,  not  of  less  faith  than  Ribera,  delighted 
himself  with  quiet,  radiant,  and  pleasing  ecstasies. 

The  sweetness   and   calmness   of  his   visions   are   what 
determine  his  rank  and  characterize  his  style, 
p  What   serenity  is   contained   in   the   Holy   Family  in  the 


THE  HOLY  FAMILY  45 

Louvre!  The  Virgin  holds,  standing  upon  her  knees,  the 
Infant  Jesus,  who  is  leaning  towards  Saint  John  the  Bap- 
tist. The  latter  is  presenting  the  Infant  God  with  a  cross 
of  reed.  In  his  left  hand  lie  is  holding  a  scroll  on  which 
the  words  Ecce  agnus  Dei  are  inscribed.  A  lamb  is  lying 
in  the  foreground.  Saint  Elizabeth,  with  a  contemplative 
glance,  is  on  her  knees.  A  dove  hovers  above  the  Bam- 
bino's head,  and,  in  the  sky,  God  the  Father  leans 
towards  the  group  composed  of  four  evangelical  personages. 
I  admit  that  the  Virgin's  head  is  a  delicate  portrait,  but  it  is 
not  merely  a  portrait.  This  reservation  made,  I  am  ready 
to  pronounce  an  unbounded  eulogy  for  the  harmony  of  the 
composition,  the  happy  contrasts  of  the  positions  and  types, 
the  correctness  of  the  attitudes  and  the  lightness  and  the 
transparency  of  the  colouring.  Some  imponderable  cheru- 
bins  are  playing  in  the  ether,  but  nearer  to  the  spectator  is 
the  body  of  the  Infant  Jesus,  with  its  clearly  marked  con- 
tours, and  without  dryness,  surpasses  by  elegance,  distinc- 
tion and  gracefulness,  the  cherubins  that  are  happy  to  con-  i 
template  him. 

This  canvas,  regarding  which  we  have  no  information, 
seems  to  have  always  belonged  to  the  collection  of  Louis 
XVI.  It  certainly  dates  from  1670  to  1680,  that  is  to 
say  from  the  painter's  last  years.  The  sight  of  it  recalls  a 
touching  story  about  iMurillo. 

Towards  the  end  of  his  life,  the  master  was  in  the  habit 
of  going  into  the  church  of  the  Vera  Cruz  and  remaining 
for  hours  in  contemplation  before  Pedro  Campana's  Drscent 
from  the  Cross.      One  day,  the  sacristan,  in  a  hurry  to  close 


46  THE  HOLY  FAMILY 

the  church,  came  up  to  the  painter  and  asked  him  what  he 
was  waiting  for.  "  I  am  waiting,"  replied  Murillo  with  a 
smile  of  ecstasy,  "  until  those  reverent  servants  shall  have 
finished  taking  the  Saviour  from  the  cross." 

Several  months  ago,  I  found  myself  in  front  of  the  Holy 
Family  in  the  Louvre  Gallery,  intent  upon  absorbing  its 
beauties  before  speaking  of  it  to  my  readers.  Suddenly 
the  solemn  "  It  is  time  to  close  !  "  was  heard  in  the  loud 
voice  of  the  keeper.  I  never  moved,  held  in  a  dream  be- 
fore Murillo's  canvas.  The  keeper  tapped  my  elbow : 
"  We  are  closing,  sir,  we  are  closing,  what  are  you  waiting 
for  ?  " 

"  I  am  waiting,"  I  answered,  "  for  the  Infant  Jesus  to 
take  that  cross  of  reed  which  the  little  Saint  John  is  ofFer- 
ing  to  him  with  such  grace." 

The  man  thought  that  I  was  mad  ;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  went  away  repeating :  "  We  are  closing,  we  are  clo- 
sing !  "  He  did  not  understand  what  great  praise  I  was 
giving  Murillo  in  borrowing  from  him  that  superb  speech 
that  he  had  formerly  pronounced  before  the  masterly  work 
of  Pedro  Campana. 


THE  SUN  OF  VENICE  GOING  TO  SEA 

{Turner) 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

THE  master  mind  cf  Turner,  without  effort,  showers 
its  knowledge  into  every  touch,  and  we  have  only 
to  trace  out  even  his  slightest  passages,  part  by  part,  to  find 
in  them  the  universal  working  of  the  deepest  thought,  that 
consistent  cry  of  every  minor  truth  which  admits  of  and 
invites  the  same  ceaseless  study  as  the  work  of  nature  her- 
self. 

There  is,  however,  yet   another  peculiarity  in  Turner's 

painting  of  smooth  water,  which,  though  less  deserving  of 
admiration,  as  being  merely  a  mechanical  excellence,  is  not 
less  wonderful  than  its  other  qualities,  nor  less  unique — a 
peculiar  texture,  namely,  given  to  the  most  delicate  tints  of 
the  surface,  when  there  is  little  reflection  from  anything 
except  sky  or  atmosphere,  and  which,  just  at  the  points 
where  other  painters  are  reduced  to  paper,  gives  to  the  sur- 
face of  Turner  the  greatest  appearance  of  substantial  liquid- 
itv.  It  is  impossible  to  say  how  it  is  produced;  it  looks 
like  some  modification  of  body  colour;  but  it  certainly  is 
not  body  colour  used  as  by  other  men,  for  I  have  seen  this 
expedient  tried  over  and  over  again  without  success  ;  and 
it  is  often  accompanied  by  crumbling  touches  of  a  dry 
brush,  which   never  eouKI  have  been  put  upon  body  colour, 


48  THE  SUN  OF  VENICE  GOING  TO  SEA 

and  which  could  not  have  shown  through  underneath  it. 
As  a  piece  of  mechanical  excellence,  it  is  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  things  in  the  work  of  the  master ;  and  it  brings 
the  truth  of  his  water-painting  up  to  the  last  degree  of  per- 
fection, often  rendering  those  passages  of  it  the  most  at- 
tractive and  delightful,  which  from  their  delicacy  and 
paleness  of  tint,  would  have  been  weak  and  papery  in  the 
hands  of  any  other  man.  The  best  instance  of  it  I  can 
give  is,  I  think,  the  distance  of  the  Devonport  with  the 
Dockyards. 

After  all,  however,  there  is  more  in  Turner's  painting  of 
water  surface  than  any  philosophy  of  reflection,  or  any 
peculiarity  of  means  can  accomplish ;  there  is  a  might  and 
wonder  about  it  which  will  not  admit  of  our  whys  and 
hows.  Take,  for  instance,  the  picture  of  the  Sun  of  Venice 
Going  to  Sea^  of  1843,  respecting  which,  however,  there  are 
one  or  two  circumstances  which  may  as  well  be  noted  be- 
sides its  water-painting.  The  reader,  if  he  has  not  been  at 
Venice,  ought  to  be  made  aware  that  the  Venetian  fishing- 
boats,  almost  without  exception,  carry  canvas  painted  with 
bright  colours,  the  favourite  design  for  the  centre  being 
either  a  cross  or  a  large  sun  with  many  rays,  the  favourite 
colours  being  red,  orange,  and  black,  blue  occurring  oc- 
casionally. The  radiance  of  these  sails  and  of  the  bright 
and  grotesque  vanes  at  the  mast-heads  under  sunlight  is  be- 
yond all  painting,  but  it  is  strange  that,  of  constant  oc- 
currence as  these  boats  are  on  all  the  lagoons.  Turner  alone 
should  have  availed  himself  of  them.  Nothing  could  be 
more  faithful  than  the  boat  which  was  the  principal  object 


THE  SUN  OF  VENICE  GOING  TO  SEA  49 

in  this  picture,  in  the  cut  of  the  sail,  the  filling  of  it,  the 
exact  height  of  the  boom  above  the  deck,  the  quartering  of 
it  with  colour,  finally  and  especially,  the  hanging  of  the 
fish-baskets  above  the  bows.  All  these,  however,  are  com- 
paratively minor  merits  (though  not  the  blaze  of  colour 
which  the  artist  elicited  from  the  right  use  of  these  circum- 
stances), but  the  peculiar  power  of  the  picture  was  the 
painting  of  the  sea  surface,  where  there  were  no  reflections 
to  assist  it.  A  stream  of  splendid  colour  fell  from  the 
boat,  but  that  occupied  the  centre  only;  in  the  distance, 
the  city  and  crowded  boats  threw  down  some  playing  lines, 
but  these  still  left  on  each  side  of  the  boat  a  large  space  of 
water  reflecting  nothing  but  the  morning  sky.  This  was 
divided  by  an  eddying  swell,  on  whose  continuous  sides  the 
local  colour  of  the  water  was  seen,  pure  aquamarine,  (a 
beautiful  occurrence  of  closely-observed  truth),  but  still 
there  remained  a  large  blank  space  of  pale  water  to  be 
treated,  the  sky  above  had  no  distinct  details  and  was  pure 
faint  grey,  with  broken  white  vestages  of  cloud  :  it  gave  no 
help  therefore.  But  there  the  water  lay,  no  dead  grey  flat 
paint,  but  downright  clear,  playing,  palpable  surface,  full 
of  indefinite  hue,  and  rct-ring  as  regularly  and  visibly  back 
and  far  away,  as  if  there  had  been  objects  all  over  it  to  tell 
the  story  by  perspective.  Now  it  is  the  doing  of  this 
which  tries  the  painter,  and  it  is  his  having  done  this  which 
made  me  say  above  that  "  no  man  had  ever  painted  the  sur- 
face of  calm  water  but  Turner."  The  San  Benedetto,  look- 
ing towards  Fusina,  contained  a  similar  passage  equally  fine; 
in    one    of  the   Canalc  della  Guidecca,  the  specific  green 


50  THE  SUN  OF  VENICE  GOING  TO  SEA 

colour  of  the  water  is  seen  in  front,  with  the  shadows  of 
the  boats  thrown  on  it  in  purple ;  all,  as  it  retires,  passing 
into  the  pure  reflective  blue. 

But  Turner  was  not  satisfied  with  this.  He  is  never 
altogether  content  unless  he  can,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
takes  advantage  of  all  the  placidity  of  repose  tell  us  some- 
thing either  about  the  past  commotion  of  the  water,  or 
of  some  present  stirring  of  tide  or  current  which  its  still- 
ness does  not  show  or  give  us  something  or  other  to  think 
about  and  reason  upon,  as  well  as  to  look  at. 


THE   COLUMBINE 

MARCEL  REYMOND 

IN  art  criticism,  it  is  customary  to  affirm  as  an  incontest- 
able principle  that  the  Greeks  realized  an  ideal  of 
beautv  to  which  modern  nations  have  never  been  able 
to  attain.  Nevertheless,  who  is  there  among  us  that, 
desiring  to  give  new  life  to  one  of  the  dreams  of  beauty 
that  blossomed  under  the  hands  of  the  artists  of  the  past, 
would  choose  a  Venus  or  a  Diana  of  Greek  art,  and  would 
not  a  thousand  times  rather  evoke  one  of  those  enchant- 
resses immortalized  by  the  genius  of  a  Lionardo  or  a  Luini. 
The  reason  is  that,  notwithstanding  the  superiority  we 
may  recognize  in  Greek  art,  and  whatever  may  be  the 
plastic  beauty  of  the  forms  it  has  reproduced,  there  is  yet 
in  the  faces  created  by  modern  art  a  more  ardent  awakening 
of  thought  and  heart,  a  closer  and  warmer  communication 
between  their  souls  and  our  own.  They  seize  upon  us  less 
by  reason  of  the  regularity  of  their  features  than  by  the 
smile  upon  their  lips  and  the  tenderness  in  their  eyes. 

Luini,  the  master  whose  glory  equals  that  of  the  most 
illustrious  artists  of  northern  Italy, — Mantegna,  Giovanni 
Bellini,  Titian — possesses  a  complex  mind,  and  follows  a 
twoftjld  artistic  dream  in  his  works.  If  he  works  in  this 
way,  it  is  because  he  lived  in  the  early  part  of  the  Sixteenth 


52  THE  COLUMBINE 

Century,  during  a  period  of  transition,  that  still  preserved 
the  memory  of  former  ages  whilst  prizing  the  new  ideals. 
In  no  other  artist,  perhaps,  do  we  find  united  with  such 
intensity,  these  two  apparently  irreconcilable  sentiments : 
the  religious  sentiment  and  the  passion  of  love.  On  ex- 
amining Luini  in  his  great  religious  pages  at  Milan,  Sa- 
vonno  and  Lugano,  or  in  admirable  Madonna  faces,  we 
seem  to  have  before  our  eyes  some  neophyte  who  has  been 
piously  reared  in  the  shadow  of  the  cloisters ;  and  on  look- 
ing at  his  Herodiases,  his  Susannas  and  his  symbolical  figures, 
it  seems  that  his  whole  life  must  have  been  spent  in  the 
pursuit  of  love  and  beauty. 

Luini's  female  creations  are  so  exquisite  that  for  a  long 
time  people  supposed  that  Luini  alone  was  capable  of  con- 
ceiving them  and  permanently  recording  their  loveliness ; 
but  now  this  injustice  has  come  to  an  end,  and  Luini's  art 
appears  before  us  with  sharply  determined  characteristics 
that  prevent  us  from  confounding  it  with  Lionardo's  art. 

First  of  all,  from  the  point  of  view  of  technique,  it  must 
be  remarked  that  Lionardo  works  like  a  master  born  about 
1450 ;  and  Luini  like  one  born  after  1470.  With  Luini 
the  workmanship  is  less  precise  than  with  Lionardo  ;  while 
the  stroke  is  less  restrained,  and  the  modelling  freer.  To 
convince  ourselves  of  this,  it  is  only  necessary  to  examine 
the  picture  from  St.  Petersburg  reproduced  herewith.  The 
artists  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  were  fond  of  this  broad 
and  supple  execution,  but  Lionardo  would  have  been  likely 
to  have  taxed  this  suppleness  with  insufficiency,  and  would 
have   prescribed   a  more   nervous  effort  to   draw  closer  to- 


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THE  COLUMBINE  53 

gethcr  the  forms  of  life.  Moreover,  Luini's  art,  as  we 
behold  it  in  the  Columbine  of  the  Hermitage,  differs  from 
that  of  Lionardo  quite  as  much  in  depth  as  in  form.  In 
fact,  the  student  should  be  good  enough  to  consider  that 
whatever  LionarJo's  naturalist  researches  may  have  been, 
he  never  conceived  a  work  of  art  outside  his  religious  bond  ; 
and  if  we  accept  the  "Jocoude^  which  is  a  portrait  merely, 
all  the  faces  of  women  in  which  he  has  incarnated  his 
dream  of  beauty  are  those  of  Madonnas.  Now,  in  these 
faces,  we  find  united  with  the  noblest  thoughts,  the  most 
subtle  strivings  after  carnal  loveliness  ;  and  it  is  impossible 
for  us  not  to  regard  as  hurtful,  or  at  least  as  useless  and  in- 
appropriate, such  sensual  elements  in  a  motive  that  above 
all  else  demands  the  expression  of  innocence,  modesty  and 
maternal  love.  But  Lionardo's  pupils,  especially  Luini,  in 
obedience  to  an  imperious  logic,  were  led,  in  order  to  fol- 
low their  master's  own  ideas,  to  relinquish  the  Madonna 
motive  and  adopt  subjects  more  in  unison  with  the  ideas 
that  they  desired  to  express;  and,  with  Luini,  thus  arises 
the  whole  of  this  interesting  group  of  works  of  art  to  which 
the  picture  that  we  are  now  studying  belongs.  It  is  a 
motive  to  which  his  most  intimate  preferences  appear  to 
have  been  attached,  and  in  truth,  more  than  any  other,  this 
motive  worthily  responds  to  that  ideal  of  sovereignly  seduc- 
tive beauty  that  haunted  him.  This  is  the  motive  of  Hero- 
dias^  which  he  has  repeated  four  times  (Louvre,  Vienna, 
Florence  and  Milan).  With  the  Hcrodias  we  must  connect 
a  group  representing  symbolic  figures,  the  most  admirable  of 

'  Sec  Great  nctures  (New  York,  1899),  142. 


54  THE  COLUMBINE 

which  are  the  Vanity  and  Modesty  of  the  Sciarra  Gallery, 
and  the  picture  here  reproduced  from  the  Hermitage.  The 
slightest  comparison  between  the  picture  of  the  Sciarra 
Gallery  and  that  of  the  Hermitage  will  show  that  the  same 
subject  appears  in  both.  The  St.  Petersburg  picture,  like 
the  one  in  Rome,  represents  an  allegory  intended  to  pro- 
claim the  eternal  beauty  of  woman.  If  we  knew  the  lan- 
guage of  flowers,  as  it  was  understood  in  the  Sixteenth 
Century,  perhaps  we  might  be  able  to  draw  some  more 
precise  deduction  from  the  flowers  chosen  by  Luini,  from 
that  ancholic  that  he  loved  so  much  and  that  he  has  else- 
where placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Infant  Jesus  {^Brera  Ma- 
donna)^ from  that  jasmin  that  we  find  again  in  the  Vanity 
of  the  Sciarra  Palace,  or  from  those  miserable  little  flowers, 
sprouting  in  the  ruins,  that  Lionardo  had  studied  with 
such  interest  in  his  Madonna  of  the  Rocks. 

How  comes  it  that  upon  a  picture  the  meaning  of  which 
is  so  comprehensible  the  name  Columbine  has  been  writ- 
ten ?  A  Columbine  by  Luini !  But  truly,  does  not  that 
sound  to  our  ears  as  strangely  false  as  if  someone  were  to 
speak  to  us  of  a  Punchinello  by  Michelangelo  or  a  Pierrot 
by  Raphael  ?  These  personages  borrowed  from  Italian 
comedy  are  good  enough  for  Watteau  and  the  little  masters 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  It  is  true  that  our  picture  by 
Luini  received  its  name  Columbine  in  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury, and  to  a  certain  extent  we  may  understand  the  reason 
of  this  appellation.  Every  period  realizes  under  a  particu- 
lar form  the  ideas  that  are  dear  to  it,  and  if  in  order  to 
express  the  great  thoughts  that  preoccupied  the  minds  of 


THE  COLUMBINE  55 

the  artists  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  it  was  necessary  to 
create  Madonnas,  Heroadases  and  Judiths ;  in  order  to 
satisfy  the  amorous  folly  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  it  was 
sufficient  to  evoke  Harlequins,  Punchinellos  and  Colum- 
bines. Columbine  is  the  Venus  of  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
pretty,  charming  and  coquettish.  Therefore,  why  not  give 
that  name  to  this  adorable  figure  into  which  Luini  has  put 
so  much  smiling  charm  and  loveliness  ?  And  yet,  what  a 
mistake,  what  a  monstrous  anachronism  it  is  to  judge  the 
ardent  soul  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  with  the  frivola us  sen- 
suality of  the  Eighteenth ;  it  is  utterly  falsifying  the  mean- 
ing of  these  works  in  which  the  Italy  of  the  Renaissance 
reveals  herself  to  us  in  such  a  prodigious  ideal  of 
beauty. 

It  has  often  been  asked  how  it  came  to  pass  that  Lion- 
ardo  left  no  disciples  in  Florence,  when  he  created  such  a 
strong  school  in  Milan.  The  first  cause,  in  my  opinion, 
should  be  sought  for  in  the  laws  that  presided  over  the  for- 
mation and  development  of  the  Florentine  school  of  paint- 
ing. This  school,  created  by  fresco  painters  accustomed 
to  works  of  vast  dimensions,  did  not  care  to  tarry  over  the 
finesses  of  execution,  or  the  enumeration  of  minute  details  ; 
it  simplified  its  vision,  attaching  itself  particularly  to  the 
broad  lines,  and  only  retaining  of  the  forms  what  was 
essentially  expressive  in  them.  This  character  will  be 
noticed  at  all  periods  of  Florentine  painting,  in  Giotto, 
Masaccio,  Ghirlandaio  and  Andrea  del  Sarto.  When  the 
Florentine  painters  depart  from  this  general  conception,  it 
is  only  by  accident   and   almost  always   in   consequence  of 


$6  THE  COLUMBINE 

foreign  action,  and  action  that  will  be  sometimes  that  of 
Flemish  painters  such  as  Van  der  Weyden,  or  Van  der 
Goes,  and  sometimes  that  of  Florentine  sculptors  who,  at  a 
given  moment,  about  the  middle  of  the  Fifteenth  Century, 
exercised  so  powerful  an  influence  upon  the  painters  who 
were  their  contemporaries.  The  action  of  Verrocchio  in 
particular  was  such  as  to  transform  the  style  of  the  Floren- 
tine school  of  painting,  and  to  give  birth  to  the  so  entirely 
individual,  and  in  certain  respects  so  little  Florentine,  of 
Lionardo  da  Vinci. 

But  the  fact  that  this  new  style  was  outside  the  traditions 
of  the  Florentine  school  of  painting  must  have  hindered  its 
development,  and  in  reality  Lionardo  had  no  disciple  in 
Florence.  With  Fra  Bartolomeo  and  Andrea  del  Sarto 
it  is  the  old  character  of  the  school  that  reappears  to  follow 
out  its  natural  evolution  through  the  whole  course  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century. 

In  the  North  of  Italy,  on  the  contrary,  the  precision  of 
line  and  observation  of  detail  form  a  predominant  character 
of  those  schools  of  which  Mantegna  is  the  most  illustrious 
representative.  These  schools,  therefore,  found  in  Lion- 
ardo a  teaching  that  responded  to  their  ancient 
traditions,  and  we  may  thus  understand  how  the  seed 
planted  by  Lionardo  in  the  soil  of  Milan  struck 
such  deep  root  and  produced  such  beautiful  flowers 
there. 

But  however  this  may  be,  and  whatever  may  have  been 
the  causes  of  this  admirable  blossoming  of  Milanese  art  in 
the  early  years  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  we  may  say  that 


THE  COLUMBINE  57 

it  represents  in  a  highly  learned  form  one  of  the  researches 
that  have  the  most  occupied  the  Italian  genius,  I  mean  the 
seeking  after  beautv^iuisued,  in  the  harmonious  accord 
between  form  and  poetry. 


THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS 

■ '■  (^Hubert  and  'Jan  Van  Eyck') 

'>J^J^.A.^     'f^'^'^  frj'  A.  CROWE  AND  G.  B.  CAVALCASELLE 

THE  Chapel  of  the  Vydts  at  Saint  Bavon  was  conse- 
crated in  1432  and  Van  Mander  describes  the 
"  swarms  "  which  came  to  admire  it.  There  were  festive 
days,  he  adds,  on  which  the  people  were  allowed  to  enter. 
In  ordinary  times  it  was  closed,  and  *'  few  but  the  high 
born  and  such  as  could  afford  to  pay  the  cusios  saw  it." 

That  this  wonderful  performance,  when  finished  and 
exhibited,  should  have  been  looked  at  with  exceptional 
interest  is  not  surprising.  It  was  the  finest  picture  of  the 
age  in  Belgium,  remarkable  for  its  perfection  of  technical 
handling,  and  eminently  calculated  to  captivate  a  public 
full  of  the  fervour  of  religion.  When  open  it  represented 
the  sacrifice  of  Christ,  and  the  triumph  of  the  Church 
militant.  When  closed  it  displayed  in  prominent  positions 
the  portraits  of  the  donors.  That  such  a  picture  should 
receive  minute  and  special  attention  is  evident. 

In  the  centre  of  the  altar-piece,  and  on  a  panel  which 
overtops  all  the  others,  the  noble  and  dignified  figure  of 
Christ  sits  enthroned  in  the  prime  of  manhood  with  a  short 
black  beard,  a  broad  forehead,  and  black  eyes.  On  his 
head  is  the  white  tiara,  ornamented  with  a  profusion  of 
diamonds,  pearls,  and  amethysts.     Two  dark  lappets   fall 


I  III       A  N'jI.I.     Jll  .-Ji    JAS.S 


THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS  59 

on  either  side  of  the  grave  and  youthful  face.  The  throne 
of  black  damask  is  embroidered  with  gold;  the  tiara  re- 
lieved on  a  golden  ground  covered  with  inscriptions  in 
semicircular  lines.  Christ  holds  in  his  left  hand  a  sceptre 
of  splendid  workmanship,  and  with  two  fingers  of  his  right 
hand  he  gives  his  blessing  to  the  world.  The  gorgeous  red 
mantle  which  completely  enshrouds  his  form  is  fastened  at 
the  breast  by  a  large  jewelled  brooch.  The  mantle  itself  is 
bordered  with  a  double  row  of  pearls  and  amethysts.  The 
feet  rest  on  a  golden  pedestal,  carpeted  with  black,  and  on 
the  dark  ground,  which  is  cut  into  perspective  squares  by 
lines  of  gold,  lies  a  richly-jewelled  open-worked  crown, 
emblematic  of  martyrdom.  This  figure  of  the  Redeemer 
is  grandly  imposing ;  the  mantle,  though  laden  with 
precious  stones,  in  obedience  to  a  somewhat  literal  inter- 
pretation of  Scripture,  falls  from  the  shoulders  and  over 
the  knees  to  the  feet  in  ample  and  simple  folds.  The 
colour  of  the  flesh  is  powerful,  brown,  glowing,  and  full  of 
vigour,  that  of  the  vestments  strong  and  rich.  The  hands 
are  well  drawn,  perhaps  a  little  contracted  in  the  muscles, 
but  still  of  startling  realism.  On  the  right  of  Christ,  the 
Virgin  sits  in  her  traditional  robe  of  blue ;  her  long  fair 
hair,  bound  to  the  forehead  by  a  diadem,  flowing  in  waves 
down  her  shoulders.  With  most  graceful  hands  she  holds 
a  book,  and  pensively  looks  with  a  placid  and  untroubled 
eye  into  space.  On  the  left  of  the  Eternal,  St.  John  the 
Baptist  rests,  long  haired  and  bearded,  austere  in  expression, 
splendid  in  form,  and  covered  with  a  broad,  flowing,  green 
drapery.      On  the  spectator's  right  of  St.  John  the  Baptist, 


6o  THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS 

St.  Cecilia,  in  a  black  brocade,  plays  on  an  oaken  organ 
supported  by  three  or  four  angels  with  viols  and  harps. 
On  the  left  of  the  Virgin,  a  similar  but  less  beautiful  group 
of  singing  choristers  stand  in  front  of  an  oaken  desk,  the 
foremost  of  them  dressed  in  rich  and  heavy  red  brocade. 
All  the  singing  and  playing  angels  have  light  wavy  hair, 
bound  over  the  head  by  cinctures  of  precious  stones. 
Their  dresses  are  profusely  ornamented,  somewhat  heavy 
in  texture  and  angular  in  fold.  A  prevailing  red  tone  in 
the  shadow  of  the  flesh  tints  makes  it  doubtful  whether 
they  are  executed  by  the  same  hand  as  the  Christ,  but  the 
comparative  want  of  power  and  harmony  in  the  colour  of 
these  panels  may  be  caused  by  restoring,  and  a  few  outlines 
which  are  slightly  weakened  may  owe  this  blemish  to  a 
similar  cause. 

On  the  spectator's  right  of  St.  Cecilia  once  stood  the 
naked  figure  of  Eve,  now  removed  to  the  Brussels  Museum 
— a  figure  upon  which  the  painter  seems  to  have  concen- 
trated all  his  knowledge  of  perspective  as  applied  to  the 
human  form  and  its  anatomical  development.  It  would  be 
too  much  to  say  that  Hubert  rises  to  the  conception  of  an 
ideal  of  beauty.  The  head  is  over  large,  the  body  pro- 
trudes, and  the  legs  are  spare,  but  the  mechanism  of  the 
limbs  and  the  shape  of  the  extremities  are  rendered  with 
truth  and  delicacy,  and  there  is  much  power  in  the  colour- 
ing of  the  flesh. 

Counterpart  to  Eve,  and  once  on  the  left  side  of  the 
picture,  Adam  is  equally  remarkable  for  correctness  of  pro- 
portion   and    natural    realism.     Here   again   the    master's 


THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS  6l 

science  in  optical  perspective  is  conspicuous,  and  the 
height  of  the  hgure  above  the  eye  is  fitly  considered. 

Christ,  by  his  position,  presides  over  the  sacrifice  of  the 
Lamb  as  represented  in  the  lower  panels  of  the  shrine.^ 
The  scene  of  the  sacrifice  is  laid  in  a  landscape  formed  of 
green  hills  receding  in  varied  and  pleasing  lines  from  the 
foreground  to  the  extreme  distance.  A  Flemish  city, 
meant,  no  doubt,  to  represent  Jerusalem,  is  visible  chiefly 
in  the  background  to  the  right ;  but  churches  and  monas- 
teries, built  in  the  style  of  the  early  edifices  of  the 
Netherlands  and  Rhine  countries,  boldly  raise  their  domes 
and  towers  above  every  part  of  the  horizon,  and  are  sharply 
defined  on  a  sky  of  pale  grey  gradually  merging  into  a 
deeper  hue.  The  trees,  which  occupy  the  middle  ground, 
are  not  of  high  growth,  nor  are  they  very  different  in 
colour  from  the  undulating  meadows  in  which  they  stand. 
Thev  are  interspersed  here  and  there  with  cypresses,  and 
on  the  left  is  a  small  date-palm.  The  centre  of  the  picture 
is  all  meadow  and  green  slope,  from  a  foreground  strewed 
with  daisies  and  dandelions  to  the  distant  blue  hills. 

In  the  very  centre  of  the  picture  a  square  altar  is  hung 
with  red  damask  and  covered  with  a  white  cloth.  Here 
stands  a  lamb,  from  whose  breast  a  stream  of  blood  issues 
into  a  crystal  glass.  Angels  kneel  round  the  altar  with 
parti-coloured  wings  and  variegated  dresses,  many  of  them 
praying  with  joined  hands,  others  holding  aloft  the  em- 
blems of  the  passion,  two  in  front  waving  censers.  i'Vom 
a  slight  depression  of  the  ground  tu  the  right  a  little  behind 
'  See  (Jreat  Pictures,  (New  York,  1 199),  154. 


62  THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS 

the  altar  a  numerous  band  of  female  saints  is  issuing,  all  in 
rich  and  varied  costumes,  fair  hair  floating  over  their  shoul- 
ders, and  palms  in  their  hands ;  foremost  may  be  noticed 
St.  Barbara  with  the  tower  and  St.  Agnes.  From  a  similar 
opening  on  the  left,  popes,  cardinals,  bishops,  monks,  and 
minor  clergy  advance,  some  holding  croziers  and  crosses, 
others  palms. 

Looking  at  this  beautiful  altar-piece  in  its  totality,  we 
have  to  consider  that  it  was  the  work  of  two  artists  and 
their  assistants,  of  Hubert,  who,  no  doubt,  composed, 
arranged,  and  partly  executed  it,  of  John  and  his  journey- 
men who  finished  it.  The  portraits  of  the  two  brothers 
are  found  on  one  of  the  panels;  are  they  done  by  the 
elder  or  by  the  younger  brother  ?  What  part  is  Hubert 
most  likely  to  have  finished  first  ?  Surely  the  upper,  which 
comprises  the  Saviour,  the  Virgin,  St.  John,  and  our  first 
parents ;  yet  when  looking  at  the  band  of  hermits  in  the 
lower  course,  the  display  of  power  seems  as  great  as  in  the 
best  portions  of  the  upper,  and  greater  than  is  to  be  found 
in  any  of  the  pictures  produced  by  John  Van  Eyck  alone. 
Hubert  incepit^  John  perfecit ;  that  is  the  sum  total  of  our 
knowledge.  By  nicely  comparing  the  merits  of  the  several 
pieces,  we  come  to  the  conclusion  that  John  carried  out 
the  panel  of  the  Lamb  with  some  of  the  groups  at  its  sides, 
and  most  of  the  outer  faces ;  but  it  would  be  too  much  to 
say  that  Hubert  was  not  instrumental  in  laying  out  and 
beginning  some  even  of  these. 

The  unity  of  religious  thought  which  comes  to  its  dis- 
play in  this  masterpiece  is  marred  by  curious  disproportions. 


THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS  63 

The  idea  of  divine  power  conveyed  by  contrasting  the 
larger  size  of  Christ,  Alary,  and  John  with  the  smaller 
statue  of  the  angels  or  Adam  and  Eve,  is  more  of  earth 
than  of  heaven,  and  hardly  conducive  to  a  fine  general 
effect.  Our  feeling  for  uniformity  is  affected  by  figures 
reduced  in  the  lower  course  to  one-third  of  the  height  of 
those  in  the  upper.  There  is  something  essentially  of  this 
world  in  the  realism  which  depicts  the  Saviour  in  a  room 
with  a  chequered  floor,  and  the  angels  of  paradise  as  chor- 
isters in  an  organ  loft.  It  is  a  mistake  into  which  the  Van 
Eycks  have  fallen  to  suppose  that  the  notion  of  spiritual 
might  is  inseparable  from  rigidity  of  attitude  and  gaze,  or 
that  the  radiance  of  God  can  be  fitly  and  exclusively  em- 
bodied in  gorgeous  raiment  and  costly  jewels ;  but,  taking 
realism  as  the  necessary  portion  of  the  Fleming,  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  admire  the  regular  forms,  the  grave  and  solemn 
face  of  Christ,  the  mild  serenity  of  Mary,  and  the  rugged 
force  of  the  Baptist. 

There  is  great  if  not  perfect  harmony  of  lines  and  of 
parts  in  the  composition  of  the  adoration  of  the  Lamb, 
and  no  picture  in  the  Flemish  school  of  the  Fifteenth  Cen- 
tury more  completely  and  fully  combines  the  laws  of  appro- 
priate distribution.  The  human  framework  is  mostly  well 
proportioned,  appropriate  in  movement  and  immediate  in 
action.  Without  selection,  if  tried  by  the  purest  standards, 
the  nude  as  displayed  in  Adam  and  Eve  would  satisfy  the 
canons  of  a  not  too  critical  taste.  It  is  studied  as  to  shape 
and  place,  natural,  and  carefully  wrought  in  features,  articu- 
lations, and  extremities.     Outlines  of  such  clearness  and 


64  THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS 

firmness  were  only  possible  to  men  fully  cognizant  of 
anatomy ;  they  are  never  too  strongly  emphasized,  except 
where  the  artists  try  their  utmost  to  be  true  to  the  model. 
Expression,  chastened  and  serene  in  some  of  the  more  ideal 
figures,  is  seldom  free  from  vulgarity  in  those  of  a  lower 
clay ;  and  if  plainness  of  face  does  not  repel  us  in  a 
St.  Christopher,  it  is  strikingly  out  of  place  in  the  Virgin 
or  in  angels.  Drapery  is  often  unequal, — at  times  ample 
and  telling  of  the  under  shapes,  as  in  the  Eternal  and  the 
hermits ;  at  times  broken,  as  in  the  brocades  of  the  chor- 
isters ;  or  angular,  piled,  and  superabundant,  as  in  the 
Annunciation. 

As  landscapists,  the  Van  Eycks  are  not  only  faultless, 
they  are  above  all  praise.  The  landscapes  give  that  unity 
to  the  composition  which  it  ought  to  have  derived  solely 
from  the  proper  arrangement  of  the  groups.  Grand  and 
harmonious  lines  unite  the  various  parts  together,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  distances  contrasts  with  the  figures  to  the 
disadvantage  of  the  latter.  The  feeling  for  depth  which 
pervades  the  altar-piece  is  one  of  its  chief  attractions.  To 
a  certain  extent  the  Van  Eycks  possessed  the  rules  of 
linear  perspective,  but  the  want  of  its  abstract  scientific 
principles  is  but  too  evident  in  the  Agnus  Dei.  They 
corrected  this  want  of  science  by  the  most  judicious  and 
admirable  use  of  aerial  perspective.  They  deceived  the 
eye  by  subtly  melting  tints,  so  as  to  interpose  air  between 
the  spectator  and  the  receding  distances ;  they  thus  rivalled 
nature  in  her  most  beautiful  gifts,  and  achieved  what  we 
prize    in    the  very  best  of  the   later   Dutch.     They  shed 


THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS  65 

light  round  their  figures  so  as  to  relieve  them  upon  each 
other  or  upon  the  landscape  ;  they  projected  their  shadows 
with  consummate  art,  showing  themselves  possessed  of  a 
quality  unknown  to  the  followers  of  their  school,  rare 
in  the  Fifteenth  Century,  and  attained  in  the  Sixteenth 
only  by  artists  of  the  highest  powers.  The  panel  of 
St.  Christopher  may  be  taken  as  an  example  of  their  skill 
in  melting  tones  to  the  extreme  horizon.  That  of  the 
hermits — a  well  ordered  composition — represents  figures 
under  leafy  overhanging  trees,  yet  preserving  their  due 
position  in  the  landscape.  The  interior  of  the  Annuncia- 
tion— too  small  for  the  figures — is  kept  in  focus  by  the 
subtle  arrangement  of  tints  and  the  dexterous  play  of 
sun  through  a  window,  whilst  the  sense  of  subdued  light 
in  a  room  is  rendered  in  the  whitish  tones  of  the  flesh. 

The  true  excellence  of  the  Van  Eycks  is  their  excellence 
as  colourists.  Their  picture  is  in  respect  of  tone  perfectly 
beautiful.  Some  panels  are  doubtless  finer  than  others, 
but  the  variation  in  colour  is  less  marked  than  the  varia- 
tions in  drawing.  The  general  intonation  is  powerful,  of 
a  brown  reddish  tinge,  full  of  light  yet  in  a  low  key, — 
technically  considered,  of  a  full  body  copiously  used,  with 
a  rich  vehicle  and  great  blending. 

The  labour  of  the  brush  is  not  visible,  but  the  skin  and 
complexions  have  the  polish  of  bronze.  The  brightest 
lights  and  the  shadows  of  flesh  arc  high  in  surface. 
The  whole  is  treated  with  great  breadth  of  chiaros- 
curo, yet  at  times  with  minute  detail.  In  some  parts  indeed 
the  detail  is  carried  out  to  the  detriment  of  the  mass.     The 


66  THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS 

draperies  are  more  thickly  laid  in  than  the  flesh,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  folds  project  from  the  panel ;  the  touch  is 
everywhere  decisive  and  the  accessories  are  modelled  in 
relief.  Important  as  a  test  of  the  perfection,  to  which  the 
new  system  of  painting  had  been  brought  in  the  Nether- 
lands is  the  fact  that  no  portion  of  the  altar-piece  gives  evi- 
dence of  experimental  or  tentative  handling.  The  parts 
are  all  treated  in  the  same  way  ;  the  pigments  are  mixed 
with  oil  vehicle  and  used  with  a  freedom  which  bespeaks 
consummate  practice.  It  is  a  strange  vagary  of  history 
that  of  two  painters  who  lived  for  a  quarter  if  not  for  half  a 
century,  the  works  should  remain  wholly  unknown  to  us 
till  a  period  when  their  style  had  reached  its  final  expan- 
sion. Here  are  two  artists  who  mastered  the  most  interest- 
ing problem  of  any  age,  who  invented  a  medium  subverting 
the  old  ones  in  use  throughout  the  world,  and  yet  of  whose 
invention  we  only  know  the  aim  and  the  results.  Of  the 
pictures  in  which  they  first  emancipated  themselves  from 
the  traditions  of  the  guilds  not  a  trace ;  all  the  preliminary 
steps  by  which  they  perfected  their  discovery  are  obliterated. 
To  which  of  the  two  masters  shall  we  ascribe  the  trials  first 
made  to  replace  the  old  method  by  a  new  one  j  in  what 
respect  did  the  latter  differ  from  the  former  ?  To  answer 
these  questions  with  authority  is  unfortunately  beyond  the 
power  of  any  writer  not  furnished  with  better  materials  than 
those  at  present  in  existence ;  but  we  shall  observe  in  the 
first  place  that  John  Van  Eyck  who  lived  much  later  and 
holds  a  more  brilliant  position  in  our  eyes  than  Hubert,  was 
also  favoured  by  fortune  in  this,  that  though  the  grave  had 


THE  ANGEL  MUSICIANS  67 

scarcely  closed  upon  him  before  he  was  forgotten  by  his 
countrvmcn,  he  was  remembered  by  men  in  distant  lands 
who  were  not  content  to  know  that  he  had  existed,  but  who 
committed  the  fact  to  paper  and  so  handed  it  down  to  pos- 
terity. 


LA  BELLE  JARDINII:RE 

{Raphael) 

F.  A.   GRUYER 

AFTER  having  transported  us  into  the  seraphic  and 
infernal  realms,  Raphael  conducts  us  into  the  do- 
mains of  the  Virgin  and  the  Infant  Jesus,  which  he  has 
made  his  own  special  property.  In  fact,  it  is  there  that  he 
has  particularly  planted  his  standard ;  there  he  is  the  master 
of  masters ;  and  there  we  can  follow  him  from  one  end  of 
his  life  to  another.  From  the  Virgin  Connestabile  (1503)  to 
the  Sistine  Madonna  (15 19)  what  a  magnificent  develop- 
ment there  is  of  the  same  thought !  This  thought,  ever 
diverse  and  ever  new,  is  expressed  again  and  again  by  him 
without  ever  being  repeated.  Unfortunately  none  of  his 
Umbrian  Madonnas  (such  as  the  Virgin  of  the  Solly  Collec- 
tion, the  Countess  AlfanTs  Virgin^  or  the  Virgin  Connestabile)^ 
so  naively  moved  with  the  chaste  emotions  of  youth,  is  to 
be  found  in  the  Salon  Carre,  and  vain  also  would  be  the 
search  for  one  of  those  Florentine  virgins  so  tenderly 
blooming  under  the  spring-tide  influences  of  the  first  so- 
journing in  Tuscany,  such  as  the  Grand  Duke's  Virgin, 
Lord  Cowpers  Virgin,  or  the  Ansidei  Madonna.  The  Belle 
'Jardiniere  takes  us  to  the  close  of  the  year  1507,  or  into 
he  early  months  of  the  year  1508,  when  Raphael,  having 


I.  A     IIKI.I.I'.    .lAKIilMhltK. 


LA  BELLE  JARDINlfeRE  69 

acquired  what  he  wanted  to  learn  from  Florence,  aspires 
towards  Rome,  where  his  genius  is  to  soar  to  its  highest 
pitch.  The  Belle  Jardiniere  is  the  song  par  excellence  of 
this  pastoral  symphony,  the  harmonious  preludes  of  which 
are  the  I'irgin  in  the  Meadow  and  the  Virgin  with  the  Finch. 
It  follows  in  their  train  and  forms  almost  the  conclusion  of 
one  of  the  important  chapters  in  the  master's  life. 

The  Virgin  is  seated,  three  quarters  full  to  the  left,  be- 
tween the  Infant  Jesus  and  the  little  St.  John  :  she  has 
ceased  looking  at  her  book  that  still  lies  open  and  apparently 
forgotten  on  her  knees.  Entirely  absorbed  in  contempla- 
tion of  her  Son,  she  is  leaning  towards  him  and  supporting 
him  with  both  hands.  She  is  as  fresh  in  heart  as  in  coun- 
tenance. Her  head  is  borne  gently  forward  in  the  direc- 
tion followed  by  the  motion  of  her  body.  Her  brow  is 
serene  and  fair;  her  eyes  are  full  of  love  and  suffused  with 
sadness ;  her  mouth  that  wants  to  smile,  notwithstanding 
its  sweetness,  assumes  an  expression  that  is  almost  austere. 
A  veil  of  gauze  is  wound  in  among  her  blonde  tresses  that 
are  parted  in  the  middle.  Her  red  robe,  embroidered  with 
black  and  laced  in  front,  reveals  her  neck  and  a  little  of  her 
shoulders  ;  it  would  also  leave  her  arms  bare,  but  for  yellow 
undcrsleeves  that  hide  them.  A  blue  mantle  thrown  over 
her  right  shoulder  falls  over  and  envelops  her  legs  while 
leaving  visible  her  feet,  which  are  bare.  This  Virgin  is 
already  far  removed  from  the  Madonnas,  imnujbilc  in  their 
mysticism,  that  had  cradled  Raphael's  childhood.  We  feel 
Nature  palpitating  within  her.  In  her  physiognomy  even, 
there  is  something  personal  and   individual  that  betrays  the 


70  LA  BELLE  JARDINIERE 

living  model  and  makes  us  suspect  a  portrait  j  but  if,  before 
this  image,  our  gaze  is  filled  with  the  charm  of  life,  our 
spirit  is  none  the  less  penetrated  with  emotions  of  grace. 
The  Infant  Jesus,  entirely  naked,  is  standing  in  front  of  the 
Virgin.  Standing  with  both  feet  upon  his  mother's  right 
foot,  he  raises  his  head  towards  her  and  his  eyes  are 
beaming  with  love.  The  head  of  the  Infant  Jesus  turned 
to  the  left  is  almost  in  profile.  Whilst  he  supports  him- 
self against  his  mother's  knee  with  his  right  hand,  he 
stretches  out  his  left  hand  towards  the  book  in  the  Virgin's 
lap.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  sweeter  union  or  more 
intimate  communion  between  the  Virgin  and  the  Bam- 
bino. Gazing  at  his  mother,  Jesus  seems  to  be  desirous  of 
telling  her  of  the  homage  he  is  receiving  from  his  forerun- 
ner. The  little  St.  John,  in  fact,  clad  in  the  fleece  of  a 
lamb,  that  falls  from  his  right  shoulder  and  encircles  his 
waist,  is  bending  the  knee  before  his  master  and  fervently 
contemplating  him.  Viewed  in  profile  from  the  left,  and 
with  his  body  bending  forwards,  he  is  leaning  upon  a  cross 
of  reed  which  he  holds  in  his  right  hand.  His  hair  upon 
his  brow  is  waving  like  flames ;  his  lips  are  praying  and  his 
eye  is  brilliant  with  ardour.  Nothing  can  be  more  moving 
than  the  adoration  of  this  little  St.  John  at  the  sight  of  the 
truly  divine  beauty  of  the  Infant  Jesus.  These  three 
figures,  united  in  the  same  thought,  the  same  sentiment  and 
the  same  love,  have  each  their  own  separate  beauty,  and  are 
also  lovely  by  a  mutual  beauty  that  each  sheds  over  the 
others. 

What  the  picture  alone  can  give  is  the  landscape  back- 


LA  BELLE  JARDINIERE  Jt 

ground  dominated  by  the  divine  group,  it  is  the  fresh  and 
limpid  atmosphere  in  which  dwell  the  Virgin  and  the  two 
children  j  it  is  those  beautiful,  luminous  and  profound 
horizons  that  give  birth  to  hope  and  promise  happiness. 
What  a  number  of  things  Raphael  knows  how  to  get  from 
Nature  !  How  he  knows  how  to  make  her  speak  to  the 
soul,  and  how  lovely  she  appears  to  him  in  the  shadows  of 
the  infinite  beauty  of  the  Virgin  and  the  Word  !  "  Before 
the  New  Testament,"  says  Bossuet,  "  the  world  was  only 
a  temple  for  idols."  Thus  the  Church  has  attributed  to 
the  Virgin  all  the  splendours  of  the  regenerated  world,  and 
popular  faith  continues  through  the  centuries  to  fete  in 
Mary  the  dawn  of  beautiful  weather.  She  is  the  Lady  and 
the  Queen  of  Nature  revived  by  the  divine  maternity  in 
her  original  dignity.  Raphael  shows  here  the  Mother  of 
the  Word  modestly  seated  in  the  middle  of  a  meadow,  in 
which  an  abundance  of  plants  and  flowers  are  growing. 
Thence  arises  the  name  of  the  Beautiful  Gardener  by  which 
this  picture  is  generally  known.  Behind  the  Virgin,  the 
planes  slope  harmoniously,  succeeding  one  another  without 
brusque  transitions,  and  gradually  leading  on  the  eye  with- 
out fatigue  and  with  gentle  modulations  to  the  distant 
horizon  bathed  in  light.  To  the  left,  a  few  trees  rise 
lightly  into  the  air.  P^arther  away  we  perceive  groves, 
buildings  and  a  lake  that  leads  on  its  opposite  shore  to  a 
city  situated  on  the  banks  of  limpid  waters.  Then  come 
blue  mountains  covered  with  eternal  snow,  the  summits  of 
which  are  lost  in  the  sky.  How  small  everything  is  in 
comparison  with  these  great  works  of  God  !     In  them  we 


Ji  LA  BELLE  JARDINlfeRE 

see  simplicity  with  the  grandeur,  the  abundance,  the  pro- 
fusion and  the  inexhaustible  riches  that  have  cost  only  one 
word,  and  that  one  word  sustains.  So  many  beautiful 
objects  only  show  themselves  and  attract  our  eyes  in  order 
to  direct  our  gaze  to  their  incomparably  more  beautiful 
author.  For  if  men,  enchanted  with  the  beauty  of  the  sun 
and  the  whole  world,  have  been  so  transported  as  to  make 
gods  of  them,  how  is  it  that  they  have  not  thought  how  far 
more  beautiful  must  be  He  who  has  created  them  and  who 
is  the  father  of  all  beauty  ? 

In  the  work  of  Raphael,  this  picture  is  the  achieved 
image  of  the  spring-time  of  life,  the  last  word  of  combined 
Umbrian  and  Florentine  aspirations.  Under  its  grace  and 
charm  lies  something  austere.  The  idea  of  death,  and 
death  upon  the  cross,  however  veiled  it  may  be,  leaves  a 
somewhat  profound  impress  on  the  enchantment  of  this 
religious  idyll. 

Does  not  this  picture,  that  translates  the  truest  sentiments 
in  the  clearest  form,  seem  to  be  the  product  of  an  almost 
involuntary  impulse  and  a  spontaneous  outburst  ?  Does 
not  such  splendour  spring  forth  of  itself  as  water  gushes 
from  a  spring?  One  might  believe  so,  and  yet  genius 
alone  does  not  suffice  to  give  birth  to  masterpieces ;  patient 
study  of  Nature  and  prolonged  effort  of  thought  are  also 
requisite.  Nothing  can  escape  the  law  of  labour; — not 
even  Raphael.  This  is  proved  by  the  preliminary  sketches 
for  this  picture  of  the  Belle  'Jardiniere.  Let  us  look  at  one 
owned  by  the  Louvre  Museum.  Here  we  find  Raphael  in 
the  presence  of  the  living  model  at  the  moment  in  which 


LA  BELLE  JARDINIERE  73 

his  idea,  after  already  ripe  reflection,  assumes  its  almost 
final  form  especially  with  regard  to  the  Virgin.  The 
maiden,  or  the  young  matron,  who  serves  the  painter  as  a 
model  is  clothed  in  a  tunic  that  allows  nothing  to  be  lost  of 
the  action  of  the  entire  tigure.  The  adjustment  of  the 
bodice  is  almost  the  same  as  in  the  picture.  P^eed  of  its 
mantle,  the  figure  appears  in  all  its  natural  elegance.  The 
shoulders  are  more  sloping ;  the  breast  is  not  so  full ;  the 
suppleness  of  the  figure  is  better  felt,  as  well  as  the  beauti- 
ful lines  of  the  hips,  and  the  action  of  the  arms  that  is  so 
full  of  abandon.  The  legs  are  bare  to  above  the  knees. 
Although  they  were  to  be  draped  in  the  picture,  Raphael 
wanted  to  take  precise  note  of  their  forms,  and  with  one 
stroke  of  his  pen  he  has  drawn  one  of  those  inimitable  lines 
that  of  themselves  alone  are  sufficient  to  reveal  a  master. 
The  relations  that  the  three  figures  bear  to  one  another  in 
the  picture  are  not  found  in  the  sketch.  The  Virgin  has 
her  head  turned  towards  St.  John  and  is  looking  at  him  in- 
stead of  at  Jesus ;  whilst  the  latter  instead  of  gazing  at  his 
mother  bends  towards  St.  John  who  is  kneeling  in  front  of 
him.  I  his  design  therefore  almost  reproduces  the  idea 
already  expressed  in  the  Madonna  painted  for  Taddeo 
Taddci  (the  Aladotma  in  the  Aleadow)  and  in  the  Madonna 
painted  for  Lorenzo  Nasi  (the  Madonna  with  the  Finch). 
The  eye  of  the  spectator,  following  in  the  sketch  the  gaze 
of  the  Virgin  and  of  the  liamhino^  is  directed  to  St.  John  ; 
whilst,  in  the  picture,  it  is  upon  the  Infant  Jesus  that  all 
eyes  are  concentrated,  as  upon  the  hearth  whence  the  light 
emanates.     Without   doubt,   other   sketches   had   preceded 


74  LA  BELLE  JARDINIERE 

this  one,  as  others  followed  it.  They  show  what  a  masterly 
gradation  the  painter's  idea  passed  through,  and  how  the 
picturesque  expression  increased  by  being  simplified;  that 
is  to  say,  by  advancing  more  and  more  towards  perfection. 

The  Belle  Jardiniere  belongs  to  Raphael's  last  stay  in 
Florence.  This  is  incontestable,  since  Raphael  has  signed 
and  dated  his  picture  on  the  border  of  the  Virgin's  robe. 

According  to  Vasari's  commentators,  the  Belle  Jarditiiere 
was  ordered  from  Raphael  by  Messer  Filippo  Sergardi,  a 
Siennese  noble,  from  whom  Francis  I.  purchased  it.  What 
is  certain  is  that  Father  Dan  mentions  it  in  the  Tr'esors  des 
Merveilles  de  Fontainehleau  in  1 65  2,  and  that  Bailly  men- 
tions it  in  the  Inventaire  des  tableaux  du  Roy  in  1709. 
From  the  Cabinet  des  M'edailles^  at  Versailles,  it  passed  to 
the  Louvre,  and  justice  has  been  done  to  it  by  giving  it  a 
place  of  honour  in  the  Salon  Carre, 


INNOCENT  X« 
{Velasquex) 

HENRY   JOUIN 

FLORENCE  has  the  Uffizi,  and  the  Louvre  has  the 
Sahn  Carr'e^  but  the  Doria  Palace  attracts  its  visitors 
by  the  portrait  of  Innocent  X.  A  picture  presumably  by 
Raphael,  some  authentic  works  by  Era  Bastiano  del  Piombo, 
Quentin  Matsys  and  Hans  Memling  call  for  attention  not 
far  from  the  image  of  Gio-Battista  Panfili,  elected  successor 
to  Urbain  VIIL  Sept.  15,  1644;  but  none  eclipses  the 
work  of  Velasquez. 

This  canvas  is  celebrated  beyond  all  others.  It  is  not 
comparable,  however,  to  Raphael's  portrait  of  Leo  X.  or  to 
Titian's  of  Paul  III.  Velasquez,  pintor  de  camara^  the 
special  painter  of  Philip  IV.,  a  man  without  a  rival,  per- 
haps, in  the  stern  and  easy  translation  of  nature,  never 
knew  that  mental  anguish,  that  glorious  supplication  of  the 
artist  who  pursues  the  ideal.  Such  was  not  really  the  aim 
that  Velasquez  imposed  upon  himself.  He  loved  nature, 
he  fed  upcni  her,  penetrating  her  most  hidden  secrets,  and 
surrounding  everything  with  elevated  thought  ;  distinction 
and  nobility  were  to  him  native  virtues.  But  if  he  tried  to 
produce  the  illusion  of  reality, — that  was  his  only  ambition. 
He    showed    the    character  of   his    model  j    he    wished   to 


76  INNOCENT  X. 

reproduce  it  with  the  rarest  science;  but  as  for  the 
interpretation  of  a  visible  form  to  that  which  consti- 
tutes the  creative  faculty  of  the  painter,  Velasquez  pays 
no  heed. 

However,  if  we  take  him  in  his  own  domain  without 
asking  him  to  pass  its  boundaries,  the  painter  of  Philip  IV. 
is  a  master  that  no  one  has  surpassed.  The  accent,  the 
brilliancy,  the  movement,  the  life,  and  the  light,  all  that 
is  imposing  or  that  radiates  by  effect,  magnificence,  and 
a  picturesque  style  finds  in  Velasquez  a  man  always 
clever  in  mingling  the  tones  with  quantity  and  suitable 
euphony. 

Let  us  proceed.  Such  an  artist  deserves  to  be  studied. 
Who  was  his  master  ?  The  biographers  name  the  savage 
Herrera  the  Elder,  then  the  amiable  Pacheco. 

But  we  are  not  mistaken  in  saying  that  the  young  painter 
followed  Poussin's  methods.  Do  you  remember  the  anec- 
dote ?  Vigneul-Marville  relates  it.  "  I  saw  him  often," 
he  wrote  of  Poussin,  "  among  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome, 
in  the  country,  or  upon  the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  sketching 
a  landscape  that  pleased  him,  and  I  have  met  him  with  his 
handkerchief  filled  with  stones,  moss  or  flowers  which  he 
carried  home  to  paint  after  nature."  Vigneul-Marville  adds 
that  one  day  he  was  bold  enough  to  ask  Poussin  by  what 
means  he  had  reached  perfection.  And  Poussin  replied  ; 
"I  have  neglected  nothing." 

No  one  has  told  us  that  Velasquez  has  given  the 
same  testimony,  but  Cean  Bermudez  has  shown  him  to  us, 
applying  himself  to  the  painting  of  birds,  fish,  fruit  and 


!'>>■"     I    .N  1       \. 


INNOCENT  X.  77 

flowers.  Are  we  then  so  far  removed  from  the  stones  and 
moss  that  Poussin  endeavoured  to  render  with  his  brush  ? 
Nature  so  untiringly  interrogated  and  scrutinized  in  the 
smallest  details,  was,  in  reality,  the  instructor  of  Velasquez. 
He  remained  her  attentive,  patient  and  persistent  pupil.  A 
renown,  undisputed  for  two  centuries,  has  rewarded  him  for 
this  cult  of  nature. 

We  may  assume  that  the  certainty  of  touch  that  dis- 
tinguishes him  came  from  Herrera.  As  for  Pacheco,  whose 
daughter  Juana  he  married  when  he  was  but  twenty-two,  he 
was  not  without  his  value.  About  1620,  Pacheco's  studio 
seems  to  have  been  something  like  those  of  Horace  Vernet 
and  Pradier  in  our  time.  The  painters,  poets  and  story- 
writers  of  Seville  congregated  there.  Cervantes  was  a  con- 
stant visitor.  Why  should  Velasquez  not  have  acquired  or 
developed  there  the  moral  qualities,  the  distinction  of  man- 
ner, and  the  polished  mind  that  made  him  liked  by  Philip 
IV.  and  the  eminent  men  of  his  time  ? 

Having  come  from  Seville  to  Madrid  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three,  Velasquez  scarcely  had  time  to  paint  a  single  portrait 
before  the  king  asked  him  to  represent  him  on  horseback  in 
the  country.  The  painter  acquitted  himself  of  the  king's 
command  with  so  much  cleverness  that  he  made  a  lasting 
conquest  of  that  prince's  good  favour.  His  high  fortune 
never  puffed  him  up.  The  masterpieces  that  he  produced 
without  any  apparent  effort  are  numerous,  but  it  does  not 
seem  that  the  painter  was  conceited  about  them.  He  con- 
tinued kind  and  appreciative  of  the  merits  of  others.  Havir 
Ivc  not  in   the  Louvre,  by  Velasquez,  the  portraits  of  thir- 


78  INNOCENT  X. 

teen  personages  grouped  upon  the  same  canvas,  and  who 
are  supposed  to  be  artists  of  merit,  friends  and  contempo- 
raries of  the  painter  ?  He  himself  is  represented  among  his 
peers,  and  Murillo,  his  pupil,  is  beside  him. 

Rubens  came  to  Madrid.  He  brought  some  presents  to 
Philip  IV.  from  the  Duke  of  Mantua.  Curious  coincidence 
— the  master  of  ceremonies  in  the  royal  chamber  was  no 
other  than  Velasquez.  That  is  how  the  two  masters  came 
into  contact.  They  became  friends  at  the  first  meeting. 
Rubens  asked  the  king's  painter  about  the  Italian  masters. 
Velasquez  had  never  travelled  except  from  Seville  to  Mad- 
rid. Rubens  begged  his  friend  to  see  Titian,  Corregglo  and 
Raphael.  And  are  not  these  two  the  descendants  of  those 
divine  men  ?  Velasquez  followed  Rubens's  advice :  he  left 
for  Venice,  Parma  and  Ferrara.  In  Rome  Urban  VIII. 
offered  him  the  hospitality  of  the  Vatican.  His  trip  was  a 
triumph,  but  the  vogue  that  he  enjoyed  and  the  honours 
that  he  received  did  not  distract  him  from  his  art.  This 
master  copied  masters.  He  made  himself  a  disciple.  The 
days  that  he  devoted  to  the  works  of  Raphael  and  Tintoret 
were  too  short.  From  time  to  time,  however,  Velasquez 
turned  from  those  works  that  absorbed  him  and  entirely 
created  the  pictures  'Joseph's  Coat  and  the  Forge  of  Vulcan. 
Notwithstanding  the  surrounding  influences,  these  works 
are  Velasquez.  Italy  fascinated  him  without  subtracting 
from  his  personal  qualities. 

He  returned.  The  restless  Philip  IV.  was  contented.  His 
painter  was  still  his  painter.  He  heaped  titles,  attentions 
*nd  friendship  upon  him.     During  this  time  Velasquez  was 


INNOCENT  X.  79 

accumulating  fine  works  in  the  king's  palaces ;  he  was  the 
portrait-painter  of  the  court  and  of  the  grandees  of  Spain. 
From  fifteen  to  eighteen  years  of  the  master's  life  thus 
elapsed.  Uninterrupted  labour  assured  him  repeated  suc- 
cesses. Suddenly  news  was  noised  abroad  that  Paris  was 
about  to  endow  a  royal  academy  of  painting.  Philip  IV. 
got  excited.  He  was  not  willing  to  be  outdistanced  by 
Anne  of  Austria  and  Mazarin  in  the  domain  of  art.  Spain 
should  have  her  Academy.  Pictures  by  great  masters, 
antiques  and  rare  treasures  capable  of  forming  the  taste  of 
students  and  of  the  public  must  ornament  the  rooms  of  the 
projected  institute.  But  who  shall  be  the  man  of  taste  and 
knowledge  to  select  these  treasures  in  the  country  of  all 
wealth, — Italy  ?  Velasquez  is  the  one  ambassador  capable 
of  managing  successfully  the  difficult  negotiation  meditated 
by  the  King  of  Spain.  The  court  painter  sailed  from 
Malaga  in  November,  1648.  They  dropped  anchor  at 
Genoa.  Velasquez  again  saw  Venice,  Milan,  Parma,  and 
Modena.  Travelling  about,  he  acquired  treasures  and  tried 
to  persuade  the  famous  painters  that  he  met  to  accompany 
him  to  Spain.  In  1630,  he  had  asked  thirteen  of  the  great- 
est artists  of  the  period — among  whom  was  our  Poussin — to 
execute  a  work  for  his  master,  the  king.  Let  us  emphasize 
this  trait.  It  shows  a  man  who  suspects  no  envy  and  who 
delights  in  bringing  the  works  of  his  rivals  to  light  in  his 
own  countrv.  At  Modena,  he  was  received  with  magnifi- 
cence. It  was  then  that  Velasquez  made  up  his  mind  to 
avoid  ovations  by  travelling  incoj;nitoi  and  the  painter  of 
Philip  IV.  escaped  in  a  stage  to  Naples. 


8o  INNOCENT  X. 

Informed  of  Velasquez's  presence  upon  Italian  soil,  Inno- 
cent X.  called  him  to  Rome.  In  vain  was  the  artist  dismayed 
by  triumphs.  The  urgent  demands  of  the  Pope  would  not 
permit  the  artist  to  keep  him  waiting.  He  arrived.  The 
entertainments  began.  The  pontiff,  and  following  his  ex- 
ample, the  cardinals  disputed  the  honour  of  having  him. 
However,  the  brilliancy  of  these  tiresome  receptions,  the 
marbles  and  the  canvases  that  Velasquez,  as  a  clever  nego- 
tiator, acquired  for  his  prince,  the  painters,  the  sculptors 
and  the  workers  in  bronze,  who,  fascinated  by  his  speech, 
followed  him  to  Spain, — in  a  word,  the  complete  success 
of  his  delicate  mission  remain  eclipsed  in  renown  by  the 
portrait  that  he  painted  at  the  Vatican. 

It  is  not  a  portrait,  it  is  a  symphony.  The  picture  ac- 
companying these  lines  renders  it  unnecessary  to  describe  the 
pose  of  Innocent  X.  But  that  which  this  picture  does  not 
show,  that  which  one  always  remembers,  if  he  has  seen 
the  work  of  Velasquez  in  the  second  gallery  of  the  Doria 
Palace  and  of  which  we  must  speak,  is  the  colour  of  this 
strange  and  marvellous  portrait.  The  Pope,  himself  very 
ruddy,  wears  upon  his  head  the  red  clementine ;  the  camail 
is  red ;  red  also  the  armchair  and  the  draperies  of  the  back- 
ground. Is  the  canvas  then  a  monochrome  ?  You  would 
never  think  so.  The  painter  of  Philip  IV.  seized  the  nuances 
and  knew  how  to  combine  tones  with  a  boldness  of  touch  in 
defiance  of  rules.  The  drapery  forming  the  background  is 
damask  of  an  old-fashioned  garnet ;  upon  this  background 
stand  out  the  cap  and  the  ruby-coloured  camail,  but  still  more 
Tilliant  is  the  face  of  Innocent  X.  the  almost  glowing  ruddi- 


INNOCENT  X.  8 1 

ness  of  which  dominates  the  whole  picture.  Life,  a  life 
intense,  vibrates  beneath  this  mask,  where  artfulness  and 
some  hardness  are  not  absent.  The  fine  and  compressed 
lips  attest  the  blood  of  the  personage ;  the  large  forehead 
is  that  of  a  man  of  thought.  The  aristocratic  hands  are 
life  itself;  the  tapering  fingers,  lightly  fidgeting  upon  the 
white  material  of  the  rochet,  make  one  think  of  the  claws 
of  a  bird.  But  the  flexible  cheeks,  of  rich  red  and  white, 
showing  strength  and  exuberance  and  the  brilliant,  domina- 
ting and  incisive  eye  are  treated  with  an  authoritative  art 
and  create  illusion.  Such  is,  in  reality,  the  result  of  the 
painter's  stratagem.  Velasquez  carried  to  its  farthest  point 
the  perception  of  the  real,  and  this  rare  faculty  has  made 
him  the  prince  of  naturalists.  The  eye  is  still  further  de- 
ceived on  account  of  the  setting  the  owners  of  the  portrait 
of  Innocent  X.  have  used  of  late  years.  The  canvas  is 
exhibited  upon  a  dais,  at  the  extremity  of  a  long  gallery, 
and  just  as  far  as  you  can  see  it,  the  pontiff  fixes  his  hawk's 
eye  upon  you  and  follows  your  every  movement.  This  is 
not  an  effigy  that  engages  your  attention,  it  is  a  man  who 
is  sitting  down  yonder  and  is  watching  you. 

Palomino  relates  that  Philip  IV.,  entering  Velasquez's 
studio  one  day  when  the  painter  was  about  to  finish  the 
portrait  of  the  great  admiral,  Adrian  Pulido  Pareja  :  "  You 
here,"  said  the  king  walking  straight  up  to  the  picture, 
"what  are  you  doing  here?  Did  I  not  give  you  command 
of  the  fleet  ?  Why  are  you  not  at  your  post  .'' "  Then 
turning  towards  the  painter  :  "  My  son,"  said  the  king, 
"you  have  deceived  mc."      If  Philip  IV.  had  found  himself 


82  INNOCENT  X. 

at  Rome  in  1648,  when  the  portrait  of  Innocent  X.  had 
the  honour  of  a  procession  and  coronation  by  acclamation 
of  the  enthusiastic  people,  he  would  have  prostrated  him- 
self to  place  his  lips  upon  the  Pope's  toe. 


BANQUET  OF  ARQUEBUSIERS 

{^FruHs  H.ih) 

HENRY  HAVARD 

I  DO  not  know  if  it  would  be  possible  to  experience  in 
a  matter  of  art,  an  impression  at  once  more  singular 
and  disquieting  than  that  felt  by  a  stranger  visiting  Haarlem 
for  the  first  time.  He  has  hardly  left  the  railway  before  he 
seems  to  have  entered  into  a  sleeping  town.  The  Kruis- 
straat  opens  before  him,  a  long  and  absolutely  deserted  per- 
spective. To  right  and  left,  the  empty  streets  offer  to 
the  caressing  sunlight  their  brick  pavements,  so  neat  and 
bright  that  it  seems  as  if  they  cannot  have  been  trodden 
upon  for  many  years.  The  slimy  waves  of  the  canals  that 
he  crosses  by  means  of  neat  little  bridges  appear  to  sleep 
in  the  shadow  of  the  great  beeches.  In  proportion  as  he 
approaches  the  centre  of  the  village,  this  strange  feelmg  of 
isolation  and  this  impression  of  solitude  become  more  in- 
tense. After  having  fathomed  with  his  glance  the  depths 
of  the  Market  Place  and  he  raps  with  the  knocker  of  the 
Stadhuis^  it  seems  to  him  that  he  is  in  the  land  of  the 
Sleeping  Beauty.  But  the  door  turns  silently  upon  its 
hinges.  A  mute  personage  admits  and  precedes  him.  Fol- 
lowing him,  (jur  visitor  ascends  several  steps,  and  immedi- 
ately finds   himself  opposite   the   pictures  of  Frans  Hals, — 


84  BANQUET  OF  ARQUEBUSIERS 

that  is  to  say  before  an  exuberance  of  noisy  and  dissolute 
life. 

Never  was  there  produced  a  more  striking  and  impress- 
ive contrast.  With  a  perplexed  mind,  one  asks  if  these 
pictures  of  wild  life  could  have  been  produced  in  this  very 
proper  and  curiously  drowsy  city,  and  if  the  painter  has  not 
traduced  nature  outrageously.  No,  Frans  Hals  has  traduced 
nothing.  He  did  nothing  but  translate  joyously  what  his 
eyes  rested  upon ;  for,  during  the  first  years  of  the  Seven- 
teenth Century,  Haarlem  bore  very  little  resemblance  to  the 
pleasant  and  soporific  town  through  which  we  have  just 
walked. 

Then  it  was  a  brilliant  agglomeration,  surrounded  with 
solid  ramparts  and  animated  with  warlike  and  querulous 
sentiments,  and,  consequently,  was  just  as  noisy  as  it  is  now 
quiet,  and  as  wide-awake  as  it  is  now  somnolent.  Around 
Saint-Bavon,  so  solitary  to-day,  bursts  of  loud  laughter 
made  the  windows  of  the  taverns  and  gaming-houses  ring. 
The  Pelican,  the  Golden  Grape,  the  Bastard  Pipe,  the 
Rhine,  the  Draw-Net,  and  the  Golden  Fleece,  succeeded 
one  another  with  an  assortment  of  dandies  of  every  kind 
and  appearance,  and  overflowed  with  thirsty  customers  who 
came  in  to  moisten  their  mirth  under  the  shadow  of  the 
gigantic  signs.  Everywhere  there  reigned  an  assiduous  and 
fecund  activity.  It  was  really  from  1570  to  1630  that 
most  of  the  public  edifices  that  adorn  the  town — churches, 
gateways,  the  town-hall,  and  market  were  built,  as  well  as 
the  greater  number  of  the  pleasing  houses  whose  smart 
facades,  combining  their  warm  tones  of  brick   with  those 


BANQUET  OF  ARQUEBUSIERS  85 

of  Stone,  stand  out  with  their  toothed  gables  from  the 
sky. 

Haarlem,  at  this  far-away  period,  was  above  all  a  home 
of  art  and  great  intellectual  work.  The  heroic  siege  that 
she  had  so  valiantly  supported  in  1572,  had  made  her  name 
known  throughout  the  whole  of  Europe.  Her  Chambers 
of  Rhetoric  were  celebrated  throughout  the  Low  Countries, 
In  the  domain  of  painting,  she  remembered  with  pride  the 
friendship  that  had  united  Thierry  Bouts  and  Jan  van  Eyck, 
and  took  care  not  to  forget  the  rank  that  the  Haarlem 
painters,  Aalbert  van  Oudewater  and  Geraard  van  Sint- 
lans,  held  among  the  forerunners  of  Dutch  art.  Finally, 
she  claimed  for  another  of  her  children,  Laurent  Coster, 
the  invention  of  printing.  This  was  more  than  was  even 
necessary  to  assure  the  renown  of  an  active  and  valiant 
city.  Then  when,  after  the  religious  wars,  the  Flemings 
began  to  emigrate  towards  the  north,  those  who  prided 
themselves  upon  art  and  literature,  took  by  choice  the  route 
to  Haarlem.  It  was  there  that  Van  de  Veldes,  Goltzius, 
Karel  van  Mander,  who  was  to  become,  in  consequence, 
the  master  of  Frans  Hals,  and  Frans  Hals  himself 
settled. 

The  latter  was  not  really  born  in  Haarlem.  His  father, 
Pieter  Hals,  belonged,  it  is  true,  to  an  old  family  of  the 
countrv ;  and  had  indeed  been  alderman  of  the  town, 
which  he  left  for  some  reason  that  nobody  knows.  He 
settled  in  Flanders,  and  Frans  was  born  in  Antwerp  in 
1584,  Our  painter,  however,  soon  returned  to  Haarlem, 
apparently  about  the  age  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  years,  for 


86  BANQUET  OF  ARQUEBUSIERS 

Van  Mander  with  whom  he  studied  for  three  or  four  years 
left  the  Low  Country  about  1603  and  died  about  1606. 

What  influence  did  the  brilliant  personality  of  Van 
Mander  exercise  upon  the  talent  of  our  artist  ?  No  one 
would  ever  think  of  settling  this.  A  scholar  fascinated  by 
everything  Italian,  an  amateur  of  classic  antiquity  raised 
by  the  Renaissance  into  the  cult  of  Form,  in  the  usage  of 
emblems,  and  an  admirer  of  obscure  allegories  and  jeux 
d' esprit,  Van  Mander  was  not  merely  contented  with  be- 
ing a  "  distinguished  "  painter.  Poet  and  litterateur,  he  had 
translated  Homer,  Ovid  and  Virgil,  and  had  written  some 
aesthetic  treatises  and  biographies  of  the  painters  of  his  day. 
Beyond  the  instruction  in  the  technique  of  an  art  which  he 
possessed  to  its  depths,  what  effect  would  this  disciple  of 
the  Rhetoricians  have  upon  an  artist  of  such  an  astounding 
personality  as  Frans  Hals,  upon  so  bold  a  painter,  disdain- 
ful of  old  formulae  and  engrossed  beyond  all  else  in  per- 
ceiving and  fixing  the  vibrant  realities  of  life  in  their  most 
evanescent  manifestations  ? 

Very  well !  Frans  Hals  owes  perhaps  to  this  old  master 
one  of  his  most  precious  qualities, — that  attractive  and  gal- 
lant humour  that  each  knew  how  to  preserve  under  the 
hardest  trials,  and  which,  with  our  painter  not  only  tri- 
umphed over  the  material  difliculties  of  a  life  often  pre- 
carious, but  also  above  that  Calvinistic  prudery,  that  studied 
gravity,  and  that  outward  formality  for  which  the  Dutch 
have  invented  the  name  Deftigheid,  which  has  no  equivalent 
in  any  other  language. 

It  is  to  this  gay,  indefatigable  humour  that  he  owes  his 


BANQUET  OF  ARQUEBUSIERS  87 

perfect  eclecticism  and  that  determined  resolution  to  seize 
everywhere  life  as  it  offered  itself  to  his  eyes  without 
prejudice,  and  without  distinction  or  cultivation,  and  with- 
out exclusive  preferences.  Rich  lords  and  prisoners  for 
debts,  ladies  of  high  degree  and  repulsive  shrews,  Catholic 
priests  and  Protestant  ministers,  grave  historians  and  ad- 
venturers, civic  guardsmen  and  frequenters  of  taverns, 
patrons  of  hospitals  and  unfortunates  of  all  habits, — his 
brush  was  always  eager  to  give  the  same  attention  to  each. 
He  was  as  ready  to  caress  the  disgusting  Hille-Bobe  as 
the  lovely  young  lady  of  Beresteyn.  He  showered  im- 
mortality upon  criminal  buffoons,  and  rotten-toothed  swag- 
gerers, with  the  same  care  and  the  same  joy  that  he  fixed 
for  posterity  the  features  of  Voetius  or  Descartes. 

But  it  seems  as  if  I  am  wandering,  it  is  not  a  study  of 
Frans  Hals  that  is  wanted  of  me,  not  an  analysis  of  his 
vigorous  talent,  but  a  simple  description  of  his  picture. 
It  is  true  that  this  work  is  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing that  the  Seventeenth  Century  has  produced  and  that 
it  occupies  a  particularly  important  place  in  the  life  of  the 
master.  It  is  the  largest,  and  perhaps  the  most  beautiful 
of  his  "  civic  "  pictures. 

This  great  canvas,  which  measures  2  metres  by  3™,  30, 
contains  no  less  than  fourteen  figures,  all  of  magnificent 
carnage,  of  marvellous  life  and  character,  of  a  striking 
resemblance,  where  are  to  be  fcnind  portrayed  with  a  rare 
precision,  not  onlv  the  features  of  each  personage,  but  his 
character,  his  temperament,  his  condition  and  his  age.  It 
is  indeed  this  astonishing  resemblance  which  imprints  upon 


88  BANQUET  OF  ARQUEBUSIERS 

this  picture  its  true  distinction ;  for  it  was  not  in  the  mind 
of  the  painter,  nor  in  his  intention,  to  make  a  page 
of  history.  He  wished  simply  to  paint  a  collection  of 
portraits. 

All  these  handsome  lords  are  citizen  soldiers.  Instead 
of  being  represented  at  the  table,  as  was  the  custom  of  the 
time,  they  asked  the  painter  to  reproduce  their  likenesses  in 
the  garden  of  their  place  of  reunion — their  Doelen.  Each 
one  posed  alone,  and  wished  not  only  to  be  painted  to  the 
life,  but  in  the  position  and  place  assigned  to  him  in  the 
company  according  to  fortune  and  rank;  and  the  painter 
has  naively  and  faithfully  conformed  to  that  singular  re- 
quest. Therefore,  notice  how  each  of  these  pacific  heroes 
is  here  on  his  own  account.  Even  those  who  are  con- 
versing address  themselves  to  the  spectator,  exactly  like 
actors  at  the  theatre.  Several  of  them  are  speaking,  but 
not  one  of  them  listens,  being  absorbed  in  his  own  role  and 
paying  no  attention  to  that  of  his  neighbour.  The  result 
of  this  singular  arrangement  is  that  the  composition  lacks 
unity.  Cut  the  canvas  in  two,  just  beyond  the  handsome 
lieutenant,  Johan  Schatter,  who,  standing  up,  with  his  hand 
upon  his  heart,  seems  to  be  addressing  some  burning  decla- 
ration to  an  unknown  lady  visitor,  and  you  will  have  two 
distinct  pictures,  each  possessing  its  elements  of  easy  group- 
ing and  each  presenting  its  individual  interest. 

What  contribute,  moreover,  to  giving  this  work  its  sig- 
nificance, are  the  numbers  placed  over  each  of  the  figures 
and  which  refer  us  to  a  kind  of  key  arranged  so  that  no  one 
will  ignore  it,  to  inform  the  curious  of  the  names,  titles  and 


BANQUET   OF  ARQUEBUSIERS  89 

qualities  of  these  handsome  personages.  This  vast  canvas 
upon  which  triumphant  vanity  is  so  pompously  exhibited 
might  have  been  frightfully  ridiculous.  Imagine  a  reunion 
of  national  guards  under  the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe  inter- 
preted bv  a  contemporary  painter  !  But  MAI.  the  Klove- 
niers  presented  themselves  before  an  artist  of  genius,  and 
their  portraits  make  an  imperishable  chef  d' oeuvre. 

This  great  scene,  disconnected  as  a  composition,  is  really 
incomparable  in  its  unity  and  harmony  of  colour.  With- 
out being  any  freer  than  he  is  in  many  other  of  his  works, 
— and  no  one  could  say  that  the  Graces  have  been  invoked 
for  it, — the  bold  and  ingenious  touch  of  the  painter  shows 
itself  here  lighter  and  more  careful  than  usual.  The 
modelling  is  more  supple,  softer,  and  less  brutal.  The  per- 
sonages, magnificently  posed  and  sumptuously  clothed  in 
their  multicoloured  doublets,  their  scarfs  of  orange,  white, 
or  blue,  their  large  ruffs,  their  cuffs,  their  hats,  their  pikes, 
and  their  swords,  stand  out  from  a  background  of  red  roofs 
and  sombre  verdure,  where  grey,  olive-green  and  light  yel- 
low bring  out  the  values  of  the  more  vigorous  tones  of  the 
background.  But  if  all  these  happy  combinations  which 
reveal  a  colourist  of  the  first  rank  did  not  exist,  the  work 
would  still  be  admirable  for  the  glowing  life  that  animates 
all  these  heads,  and  for  the  incomparable  way  in  which  the 
hands  are  treated.  And  it  is  thus  that  a  painter  of  genius 
accomplishes  a  superb  work  on  a  most  ungrateful  theme 
and  one  best  calculated  to  discourage  his  fancy. 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP 

(^Turner) 

JOHN    RUSKIN 

IT  is  not,  however,  from  the  shore  that  Turner  usually 
studies  his  sea.  Seen  from  the  land,  the  curl  of  the 
breakers,  even  in  nature,  is  somewhat  uniform  and  monoto- 
nous ;  the  size  of  the  waves  out  at  sea  is  uncomprehended, 
and  those  nearer  the  eye  seem  to  succeed  and  resemble 
each  other,  to  move  slowly  to  the  beach,  and  to  break  in 
the  same  lines  and  forms. 

Afloat  even  twenty  yards  from  the  shore,  we  receive  a 
totally  different  impression.  Every  wave  around  us  ap- 
pears vast, — every  one  different  from  all  the  rest — and  the 
breakers  present,  now  that  we  see  them  with  their  backs 
towards  us,  the  grand,  extended,  and  varied  lines  of  curva- 
ture, which  are  perfectly  expressive  both  of  velocity  and 
power.  Recklessness,  before  unfelt,  is  manifested  in  the 
mad,  perpetual,  changeful,  undirected  motion,  not  of  wave 
after  wave  as  it  appears  from  the  shore,  but  of  the  very 
same  water  rising  and  falling.  Of  waves  that  successively 
approach  and  break,  each  appears  to  the  mind  a  separate 
individual,  whose  part  being  performed,  it  perishes,  and  is 
succeeded  by  another ;  and  there  is  nothing  in  this  to  im- 
press us  with  the  idea  of  restlessness,  any  more  than  in  any 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP  9I 

successive  and  continuous  functions  of  life  and  death.  But 
it  is  when  we  perceive  that  it  is  no  succession  of  wave,  but 
the  same  water  rising,  and  crashing,  and  recoiling,  and 
rolling  in  again  in  new  forms  and  with  fresh  fury,  that  we 
perceive  the  perturbed  spirit  and  feel  the  intensity  of  its 
unwearied  rage.  The  sensation  of  power  is  als^  trebled ; 
for  not  only  is  the  vastness  of  apparent  size  much  increased, 
but  the  whole  action  is  different;  it  is  not  a  passive  wave 
rolling  sleepily  forward  until  it  tumbles  heavily,  prostrated 
upon  the  beach,  but  a  sweeping  exertion  of  tremendous  and 
living  strength,  which  does  not  now  appear  to  fall^  but  to 
burst  upon  the  shore ;  which  never  perishes,  but  recoils 
and  recovers. 

Aiming  at  these  grand  characters  of  the  Sea,  Turner  al- 
most always  places  the  spectator,  not  on  the  shore,  but 
twenty  or  thirty  yards  from  it,  beyond  the  first  range  of  the 
breakers,  as  in  the  Land's  End,  Fowey,  Dunbar  and  Laug- 
harne.  The  latter  has  been  well  engraved,  and  may  be 
taken  as  a  standard  of  the  expression  of  fitfulness  and 
power.  The  grand  division  of  the  whole  space  of  the  sea 
bv  a  few  dark  continuous  furrows  of  tremendous  swell, 
(the  breaking  of  one  of  which  alone  has  strewed  the  rocks 
in  front  with  ruin),  furnishes  us  with  an  estimate  of  space 
and  strength,  which  at  once  reduces  the  men  upon  the 
shore  to  insects  ;  and  yet  through  this  terrific  simplicity 
there  is  indicated  a  fitfulness  and  fury  in  the  tossing  of  the 
individual  lines,  which  give  to  the  whole  sea  a  wilil,  un- 
wearied, reckless  incohcrency,  like  that  of  an  enraged  multi- 
tude, whose   masses  act  together  in   frenzy,  while  not  one 


92  THE  SLAVE  SfflP 

individual  feels  as  another.  Especial  attention  is  to  be 
directed  to  the  flatness  of  all  the  lines,  for  the  same 
principle  holds  in  sea  which  we  have  seen  in  mountains. 
All  the  size  and  sublimity  of  nature  are  given  not  by  the 
height,  but  by  the  breadth  of  her  masses  :  and  Turner,  by 
following  her  in  her  sweeping  lines,  while  he  does  not  lose 
the  elevation  of  its  surges,  adds  in  a  tenfold  degree  to  their 
power :  farther,  observe  the  peculiar  expression  of  weight 
which  there  is  in  Turner's  waves,  precisely  of  the  same 
kind  which  we  saw  in  his  water-fall.  We  have  not  a  cut- 
ting, springing,  elastic  line — no  jumping  or  leaping  in  the 
waves :  that  is  the  characteristic  of  Chelsea  Reach  or 
Hampstead  Ponds  in  a  storm.  But  the  surges  roll  and 
plunge  with  such  prostration  and  hurling  of  their  mass 
against  the  shore,  that  we  feel  the  rocks  are  shaking  under 
them ;  and,  to  add  yet  more  to  this  impression,  observe 
how  little,  comparatively,  they  are  broken  by  the  wind ; 
above  the  floating  wood,  and  along  the  shore,  we  have  indi- 
cation of  a  line  of  torn  spray  ;  but  it  is  a  mere  fringe  along 
the  ridge  of  the  surge, — no  interference  with  its  gigantic 
body.  The  wind  has  no  power  over  its  tremendous  unity 
of  force  and  weight.  Finally,  observe  how,  on  the  rocks 
on  the  left,  the  violence  and  swiftness  of  the  rising  wave 
are  indicated  by  precisely  the  same  lines  which  we  saw 
were  indicative  of  fury  in  the  torrent.  The  water  on  these 
rocks  is  the  body  of  the  wave  which  has  just  broken,  rush- 
ing up  over  them ;  and  in  doing  so,  like  the  torrent,  it  does 
not  break,  nor  foam,  nor  part  upon  the  rock,  but  accommo- 
dates  itself  to  every  one  of  its  swells  and  hollows,  with 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP  93 

undulating  lines,  whose  grace  and  variety  might  alone  serve 
us  for  a  day's  study  j  and  it  is  only  where  two  streams  of 
this  rushing  water  meet  in  the  hollow  of  the  rock,  that 
their  force  is  shown  by  the  vertical  bound  of  the  spray. 

In  the  distance  of  this  grand  picture,  there  are  two  waves 
which  entirely  depart  from  the  principle  observed  by  all  the 
rest,  and  spring  high  into  the  air.  They  have  a  message 
for  us  which  it  is  important  that  we  should  understand. 
Their  leap  is  not  a  preparation  for  breaking,  neither  is  it 
caused  by  their  meeting  with  a  rock.  It  is  caused  by  their 
encounter  with  the  recoil  of  the  preceding  wave.  When  a 
large  surge,  in  the  act  of  breaking,  just  as  it  curls  over,  is 
hurled  against  the  face  either  of  a  wall  or  of  a  vertical  rock, 
the  sound  of  the  blow  is  not  a  crash  nor  a  roar ;  it  is  a  report 
as  loud  as,  and  in  every  respect  similar  to  that  of  a  great 
gun,  and  the  wave  is  dashed  back  from  the  rock  with  force 
scarcely  diminished,  but  reversed  in  direction, — it  now 
recedes  from  the  shore,  and  at  the  instant  that  it  encounters 
the  following  breaker,  the  result  is  the  vertical  bound  of 
both  which  is  here  rendered  by  Turner.  Such  a  recoiling 
wave  will  proceed  out  to  sea,  through  ten  or  twelve  ranges 
of  following  breakers,  before  it  is  overpowered.  The 
effect  of  the  encounter  is  more  completely  and  palpably 
given  in  the  Quillebcruf,  in  the  Rivers  of  France.  It  is 
peculiarly  instructive  here,  as  infcjrming  us  of  the  nature 
of  the  coast,  and  the  force  of  the  waves,  far  more  clearly 
than  any  spray  about  the  rocks  themselves  could  have 
done.  Hut  the  effect  of  the  blow  at  the  shore  itself  is 
given    in   the  Land's  Knd,  and  vignette  to  Lycidas.      Under 


94  THE  SLAVE  SHIP 

favorable  circumstances,  with  an  advancing  tide  under  a 
heavy  gale,  where  the  breakers  feel  the  shore  underneath 
them  a  moment  before  they  touch  the  rock,  so  as  to  nod 
over  when  they  strike,  the  effect  is  nearly  incredible, 
except  to  an  eye-witness.  I  have  seen  the  whole  body 
of  the  wave  rise  in  one  white,  vertical,  broad  fountain, 
eighty  feet  above  the  sea,  half  of  it  beaten  so  fine  as  to  be 
borne  away  by  the  wind,  the  rest  turning  in  the  air  when 
exhausted,  and  falling  back  with  a  weight  and  crash  like 
that  of  an  enormous  waterfall.  This  is  given  most  com- 
pletely in  the  Lycidas^  and  the  blow  of  a  less  violent  wave 
among  broken  rocks,  not  meeting  it  with  an  absolute  wall, 
along  the  shore  of  the  Land's  End.  This  last  picture  is  a 
study  of  sea  whose  whole  organization  has  been  broken  up 
by  constant  recoils  from  a  rocky  coast.  The  Laugharne 
gives  the  surge  and  weight  of  the  ocean  in  a  gale,  on  a 
comparatively  level  shore ;  but  the  Land's  End,  the  entire 
disorder  of  the  surges  when  every  one  of  them,  divided  and 
entangled  among  promontories  as  it  rolls  in,  and  beaten 
back  part  by  part  from  walls  of  rock  on  this  side  and  that 
side,  recoils  like  the  defeated  division  of  a  great  army, 
throwing  all  behind  it  into  disorder,  breaking  up  the 
succeeding  waves  into  vertical  ridges,  which  in  their  turn, 
yet  more  totally  shattered  upon  the  shore,  retire  in  more 
hopeless  confusion,  until  the  whole  surface  of  the  sea 
becomes  one  dizzy  whirl  of  rushing,  writhing,  tortured, 
undirected  rage,  bounding,  and  crashing,  and  coiling  in  an 
anarchy  of  enormous  power,  subdivided  into  myriads  of 
waves,  of  which  every  one   is   not,  be   it   remembered,  a 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP  95 

separate  surge,  but  part  and  portion  of  a  vast  one,  actuated 
by  internal  power,  and  giving  in  every  direction  the 
mighty  undulation  of  impetuous  line  which  glides  over  the 
rocks  and  writhes  in  the  wind,  overwhelming  the  one  and 
piercing  the  other  with  the  form,  fury,  and  swiftness  of  a 
sheet  of  lambent  fire.  And  throughout  the  rendering  of  all 
this,  there  is  not  one  false  curve  given,  not  one  which  is 
not  the  perfect  expression  of  visible  motion ;  and  the  forms 
of  the  infinite  sea  are  drawn  throughout  with  that  utmost 
mastery  of  art  which,  through  the  deepest  study  of  every 
line,  makes  every  line  appear  the  wildest  child  of  chance, 
while  yet  each  is  in  itself  a  subject  and  a  picture  different 
from  all  else  around.  Of  the  colour  of  this  magnificent 
sea  I  have  before  spoken  ;  it  is  a  solemn  green  grey,  (with 
its  foam  seen  dimly  through  the  darkness  of  twilight), 
modulated  with  the  fulness,  changefulness,  and  sadness  of  a 
deep,  wild  melody. 

The  greater  number  of  Turner's  paintings  of  open  sea 
belong  to  a  somewhat  earlier  period  than  these  drawings ; 
nor,  generally  speaking,  are  they  of  equal  value.  It  appears 
to  me  that  the  artist  had  at  that  time  either  less  knowledge 
of,  or  less  delight  in,  the  characteristics  of  deep  water  than 
of  coast  sea,  and  that,  in  consequence,  he  suffered  himself 
to  be  influenced  by  some  of  the  qualities  of  the  Dutch  sea- 
painters.  In  particular  he  borrowed  from  them  the  habit 
of  casting  a  dark  shadow  on  the  near  waves,  so  as  to  bring 
out  a  stream  of  light  behind;  and  though  he  did  this  in  a 
more  legitimate  way  than  they,  that  is  to  say,  expressing 
the  light  by  touches  on  the  foam,  and  indicating  the  shadow 


96  THE  SLAVE  SHIP 

as  cast  on  foamy  surface,  still  the  habit  has  induced  much 
feebleness  and  conventionality  in  the  pictures  of  the  period. 
His  drawing  of  the  waves  was  also  somewhat  petty  and 
divided,  small  forms  covered  with  white  flat  spray,  a  con- 
dition which  I  doubt  not  the  artist  has  seen  on  some  of  the 
shallow  Dutch  seas,  but  which  I  have  never  met  with  my- 
self, and  of  the  rendering  of  which  therefore  I  cannot  speak. 
Yet  even  in  these,  which  I  think  among  the  poorest  works 
of  the  painter,  the  expressions  of  breeaey-motion,  afld  light, 
are  very  jnarvellous;  and  it  is  instructive  to  compare  them 
either  with  the  lifeless  works  of  the  Dutch  themselves,  or 
with  any  modern  imitations  of  them,  as  for  instance  with 
the  seas  of  Callcott,  where  all  the  light  is  white  and  all  the 
shadows  grey,  where  no  distinction  is  made  between  water 
and  foam,  or  between  real  and  reflective  shadow,  and  which  are 
generally  without  evidence  of  the  artists'  having  seen  the  sea. 
Some  pictures,  however,  belonging  to  this  period  of 
Turner  are  free  from  the  Dutch  infection,  and  show  the 
real  power  of  the  artist.  A  very  important  one  is  in  the 
possession  of  Lord  Francis  Egerton,  somewhat  heavy  in  its 
forms,  but  remarkable  for  the  grandeur  of  distance  obtained 
at  the  horizon  ;  a  much  smaller,  but  more  powerful  example 
is  the  Port  Ruysdael  in  the  possession  of  E.  Bicknell,  Esq., 
with  which  I  know  of  no  work  at  all  comparable  for  the 
expression  of  the  white,  wild,  cold,  comfortless  waves  of 
northern  sea,  even  though  the  sea  is  almost  subordinate  to 
the  awful  rolling  clouds.  Both  these  pictures  are  very 
grey.  The  Pas  de  Calais  has  more  colour,  and  shows  more 
art   than   either,   yet    is    less    impressive.     Recently,    two 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP  97 

marines  of  the  same  subdued  colour  have  appeared  (1843) 
among  his  more  radiant  works.  One,  Ostend,  somewhat 
forced  and  affected,  but  the  other,  also  called  Port  Ruysdael, 
is  among  the  most  perfect  sea  pictures  he  has  produced,  and 
especially  remarkable  as  being  pamted  without  one  marked 
opposition  either  of  colour  or  of  shade,  all  quiet  and  simple 
even  to  an  extreme,  so  that  the  picture  was  exceedingly 
unattractive  at  first  sight.  The  shadow  of  the  pier-head  on 
tlie  near  waves  is  marked  solely  by  touches  indicative  of 
reflected  light,  and  so  mysteriously  that  when  the  picture  is 
seen  near,  it  is  quite  untraceable,  and  comes  into  existence 
as  the  spectator  retires.  It  is  thus  of  peculiar  truth  and 
value ;  and  instructive  as  a  contrast  to  the  dark  shadows  of 
his  earlier  time. 

Few  people,  comparatively,  have  ever  seen  the  effect  on 
the  sea  of  a  powerful  gale  continued  without  intermission 
for  three  or  four  days  and  nights,  and  to  those  who  have 
not,  I  believe  it  must  be  unimaginable,  not  from  the  mere 
force  or  size  of  surge,  but  from  the  complete  annihilation 
of  the  limit  between  sea  and  air.  The  water  from  its 
prolonged  agitation  is  beaten,  not  into  mere  creaming  foam, 
but  into  masses  of  accumulated  yeast,'  which  hang  in  ropes 

*  The  yeasty  waves  of  Shakespeare  have  made  the  likeness  familiar, 
and  probably  most  readers  take  the  expression  as  merely  equivalent  to 
"  foamy";  but  Shakespeare  knew  better.  Sea-foam  does  not,  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  last  a  moment  after  it  is  formed,  but  disappears,  as 
above  described,  in  a  mere  white  film.  But  the  foam  of  a  prolonged 
tempest  is  altogether  different ;  it  is  "  whipped  "  foam, — thick,  permanent, 
and,  in  a  foul  nr  discoloured  sta,  very  uply,  especially  in  the  way  if  hangs 
abfjut  the  tops  of  the  waves,  and  gathers  into  clotted  concretions  before 
the  driving  wind.     The  »ca  looks  truly  working  or  fcimcnting. 


98  THE  SLAVE  SHIP 

and  wreaths  from  wave  to  wave,  and  where  one  curls  over 
to  break,  form  a  festoon  like  a  drapery,  from  its  edge ;  these 
are  taken  up  by  the  wind,  not  in  dissipating  dust,  but 
bodily,  in  writhmg,  hanging,  coiling  masses,  which  make 
the  air  white  and  thick  as  with  snow,  only  the  flakes  are 
a  foot  or  two  long  each ;  the  surges  themselves  are  full 
of  foam  in  their  very  bodies,  underneath,  making  them 
white  all  through,  as  the  water  is  under  a  great  cataract ; 
and  their  masses,  being  thus  half  water  and  half  air,  are 
torn  to  pieces  by  the  wind  whenever  they  rise,  and  carried 
away  in  roaring  smoke,  which  chokes  and  strangles  like 
actual  water.  Add  to  this,  that  when  the  air  has  been 
exhausted  of  its  moisture  by  long  rain,  the  spray  of  the 
sea  is  caught  by  it  and  covers  its  surface  not  merely  with 
the  smoke  of  finely  divided  water,  but  with  boiling  mist ; 
imagine  also  the  low  rain-clouds  brought  down  to  the 
very  level  of  the  sea,  as  I  have  often  seen  them,  whirling 
and  flying  in  rags  and  fragments  from  wave  to  wave ;  and 
finally,  conceive  the  surges  themselves  in  their  utmost 
pitch  of  power,  velocity,  vastness,  and  madness,  lifting 
themselves  in  precipices  and  peaks,  furrowed  with  their 
whirl  of  ascent,  through  all  this  chaos ;  and  you  will  under- 
stand that  there  is  indeed  no  distinction  left  between  the 
sea  and  air ;  that  no  object,  nor  horizon,  nor  any  landmark 
or  natural  evidence  of  position  is  left ;  that  the  heaven  is 
all  spray,  and  the  ocean  all  cloud,  and  that  you  can  see  no 
farther  in  any  direction  than  you  could  see  through  a  cata- 
ract. Suppose  the  effect  of  the  first  sunbeam  sent  from 
above  to  show  this  annihilation  to  itself,  and  you  have  the 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP  99 

sea  picture  of  the  Academy,  1842 — the  Snow-storm,  one 
of  the  very  grandest  statements  of  sea-motion,  mist,  and 
light  that  has  ever  been  put  on  canvas,  even  by  Turner. 
Of  course  it  was  not  understood  ;  his  finest  works  never 
are ;  but  there  was  some  apology  for  the  public's  not  com- 
prehending this,  for  few  people  have  had  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  the  sea  at  such  a  time,  and  when  they  have,  can- 
not face  it.  To  hold  by  a  mast  or  a  rock,  and  watch  it, 
is  a  prolonged  endurance  of  drowning  which  few  people 
have  courage  to  go  through.  To  those  who  have  it  is  one 
of  the  noblest  lessons  of  nature. 

But,  I  think,  the  noblest  sea  that  Turner  has  ever 
painted,  and,  if  so,  the  noblest  certainly  ever  painted  by 
man,  is  that  of  the  S/ave  Ship^  the  chief  Academy  picture 
of  the  Exhibition  of  1840.  It  is  a  sunset  on  the  Atlantic 
after  prolonged  storm ;  but  the  storm  is  partially  lulled, 
and  the  torn  and  streaming  rain-clouds  are  moving  in 
scarlet  lines  to  lose  themselves  in  the  hollow  of  the  night. 
The  whole  surface  of  sea  included  in  the  picture  is  divided 
into  two  ridges  of  enormous  swell,  not  high,  nor  local,  but 
a  low,  broad  heaving  of  the  whole  ocean,  like  the  lifting 
of  its  bcjsom  by  deep  drawn  breath  after  the  torture  of  the 
storm.  Between  these  two  ridges,  the  fire  of  the  sunset 
falls  along  the  trough  of  the  sea,  dyeing  it  with  an  awful 
but  glorious  light,  the  intense  and  lurid  splendour  which 
burns  like  gold  and  bathes  like  blood.  Along  this  fiery 
path  and  valley,  the  tossing  waves  by  which  the  swell  of 
the  sea  is  restlessly  divided,  lift  themselves  in  dark,  indefi- 
nite,   fantastic    Ajrms,    each    casting    a    faint    and    ghastly 


lOO  THE  SLAVE  SHIP 

shadow  behind  it  along  the  illumined  foam.  They  do  not 
rise  everywhere,  but  three  or  four  together  in  wild  groups, 
fitfully  and  furiously,  as  the  under  strength  of  the  swell 
compels  or  permits  them ;  leaving  between  them  treacher- 
ous spaces  of  level  and  whirling  water,  now  lighted  with 
green  and  lamp-like  fire,  now  flashing  back  the  gold  of  the 
declining  sun,  now  fearfully  dyed  from  above  with  the  in- 
distinguishable images  of  the  burning  clouds  which  fall 
upon  them  in  flakes  of  crimson  and  scarlet,  and  give  to 
the  reckless  waves  the  added  motion  of  their  own  fiery 
flying.  Purple  and  blue,  the  lurid  shadows  of  the  hollow 
breakers  are  cast  upon  the  mist  of  the  night,  which  gathers 
cold  and  low,  advancing  like  the  shadow  of  death  upon  the 
guilty  ^  ship  as  it  labours  amidst  the  lightning  of  the  sea, 
its  thin  masts  written  upon  the  sky  in  lines  of  blood,  girded 
with  condemnation  in  that  fearful  hue  which  signs  the  sky 
with  horror,  and  mixes  its  flaming  flood  with  the  sunlight, 

and  cast  far  along  the  desolate  heave  of  the  sepulchral 

waves,  incarnadines  the  multitudinous  sea. 

I  believe  if  I  were  reduced  to  rest  Turner's  immortality 
upon  any  single  work,  I  should  choose  this.  Its  daring 
conception — ideal  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word — is  based 
on  the  purest  truth,  and  wrought  out  with  the  contrasted 
knowledge  of  a  life ;  its  colour  is  absolutely  perfect,  not 
one  false  or  morbid  hue  in  any  part  or  line,  and  so  modu- 
lated that  every  square  inch  of  canvas  is  a  perfect  composi- 
tion ;  its  drawing  as  accurate  as  fearless  j  the  ship  buoyant, 

^She  is  a  slaver,  throwing  her  slaves  overboard.  The  near  sea  is 
encumbered  with  corpses. 


THE  SLAVE  SHIP  101 

bending,  and  full  of  motion  ;  its  tones  as  true  as  they  are 
wonderful  J '  and  the  whole  picture  dedicated  to  the  most 
sublime  of  subjects  and  impressions — (completing  thus  the 
perfect  system  of  all  truth,  wliich  we  have  shown  to  be 
formed  by  Turner's  works) — the  power,  majesty,  and  death- 
fulness  of  the  open,  deep,  illimitable  Sea. 

'  There  is  a  piece  of  tone  of  the  same  kind,  equal  in  one  part,  but  not 
so  united  with  the  rest  of  tlie  picture,  in  the  storm  scene  illustrative  of 
the  Atititjuary, — a  sunlight  on  polished  sea.  I  ought  to  have  particularly 
mentioned  the  sea  in  the  Lowestofife,  as  a  piece  of  the  cutting  motion  of 
shallow  water,  under  storm,  altogether  in  grey,  which  should  be  espe- 
cially contrasted,  as  a  piece  of  colour,  with  the  greys  of  Vandevelde.  And 
the  sea  in  the  Great  Yarmouth  should  have  been  noticed  for  its  expression 
of  water  in  violent  agitation,  seen  in  enormous  extent  from  a  great  eleva- 
tion. There  is  almost  every  form  of  sea  in  it, — rolling  waves  dashing  on 
the  pier — successive  breakers  rolling  to  the  shore — a  vast  horizon  of  mul- 
titu<linous  waves — and  winding  canals  of  calm  water  along  the  sands 
bringing  fragments  of  bright  sky  down  into  their  yellow  waste.  There  is 
hardly  one  of  the  views  of  the  Southern  Coast  which  does  not  give  some 
new  condition  or  circumstance  of  sea. 


THE  MADONNA  BELLA  SEDIA 

{Raphael') 

F.  A.   GRUYER 

WITH  the  Virgin  of  the  Chair  we  arrive  at  the  cul- 
minating point  of  Raphael's  thought.  All  that  is 
beautiful  upon  earth  is  only  a  veil  intended  to  temper  the 
brilliance  of  eternal  beauty.  Having  reached  the  apogee 
of  his  powers,  Raphael  seems  to  lift  this  veil  and  see  God 
face  to  face.  In  the  Madonna  della  Tenda^  he  attempted  to 
show  the  Virgin,  the  Infant  Jesus  and  the  little  St.  John  in 
the  midst  of  luxury  and  magnificence.  This  attempt,  al- 
though a  happy  one,  did  not  yet  completely  satisfy  him,  and 
moreover,  he  left  to  one  of  his  pupils  the  task  of  doing 
part  of  it.  But  almost  immediately,  he  again  took  up  the 
same  idea,  isolated  it  still  more  from  the  vulgar  and  acci- 
dental conditions  of  life,  considered  it  this  time  as  a  pure 
abstraction,  and,  disengaging  it  from  all  secondary  attrac- 
tion, relied  upon  himself  for  the  task  of  formulating  it 
definitely.  The  Virgin  of  the  Chair  is  the  product  of  the 
inspiration  of  a  unique  moment,  and  is  like  a  ray  of  light 
that  marks  one  of  the  three  summits  upon  which  Raphael 
has  placed  the  Mother  of  the  Word.  On  the  first  of  these 
peaks  we  see  the  Virgin  of  the  Candelabra ;  the  Virgin  of 
the  Chair  gleams  on  the  second  with  an  even  greater  splen* 


Till;     MAlHiNNA     liKI.I.A     M.DIA. 


THE  MADONNA  DELLA  SEDIA  I03 

dour;  and  on  the  third  the  Sistine  Madonna  appears  radiant 
with  celestial  light. 

Seated  in  a  chair  {sediay  one  of  the  posts  of  which  is 
visible,  the  Virgin  holds  the  Infant  Jesus  close  in  her  arms. 
They  are  both  looking  at  the  spectator,  and  are  radiant 
with  beautv  against  a  sombre  background.  Beside  them 
appears  St.  John  in  the  ecstasy  of  prayer  and  contempla- 
tion. Nothing  can  be  simpler,  nor  at  the  same  time  more 
striking.  It  is  only  the  Infant  in  the  arms  of  his  Mother, 
with  another  child  beside  them.  There  is  no  dramatic 
action,  nor  any  violence  in  the  figures.  Everywhere  is 
immobility  and  repose.  But  in  this  group,  where  there  is 
perfect  calm,  and  yet  where  real  life  is  abundantly  circula- 
ting, the  feeling  of  divinity  elevates  Nature  to  heights  that 
of  herself  she  would  not  be  able  to  attain. 

The  purest  part  of  Raphael's  glory  is  to  have  seen, 
through  the  images  of  the  Virgin  of  the  Word,  the  pro- 
gressive march  of  love,  passing  from  the  body  to  the  soul, 
and  from  the  soul  mounting  to  God.  Raphael  knows  how 
to  find  God  everywhere.  It  is  evident  that  a  human 
model  was  before  him  when  he  painted  the  Virgin  of  the 
Chair.  Some  people  even  will  have  it  that  La  Fornarina 
was  not  a  stranger  to  this  picture.  But  La  Fornarina,  how- 
ever beautiful  she  may  appear  in  her  portraits,  does  not  at 

•Whence  the  name  of  Virgin  of  the  CiazV  (Madonna  della  Sedia). 
It  was  already  catalogued  in  the  inventory  of  Florence.  It  is  now  in  the 
Pilti  Palace.  The  Virgin  of  the  Chair  is  contained  in  the  circumference 
of  a  circle,  and  should  never  fill  any  oilier  form  of  space.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  composition,  nothing  can  give  a  belter  idea  of  Raphael. 
Everything  converges  to  the  centre  of  the  circle,  and  every  point  of  the 
circumference  receives  a  reflection  of  Uie  central  light. 


n 


_/ 


104  THE  MADONNA  DELLA  SEDIA 

all  surpass  the  limits  of  the  senses.  Her  face  is  full  of 
freshness,  her  glance  is  brilliant,  and  her  features  blossom 
out  the  breath  of  health  and  happiness ;  but  she  is  only  a 
woman.  It  is  true  that  in  every  Christian  woman,  how- 
ever degraded  she  may  be,  there  is  an  internal  flame  which 
the  ashes  of  the  world  may  cover  but  which  they  never  ex- 
tinguish. Art  may  brush  these  ashes  aside,  make  the  flame 
leap  up  afresh,  and  restore  its  original  energy  to  it.  Then 
there  is  a  veritable  transfiguration  :  the  reality,  without  dis- 
appearing, purifies  itself,  ennobles  itself,  and  transforms  it- 
self till  it  is  scarcely  recognizable;  and,  where  only  a 
woman  had  been,  we  now  see  only  a  Virgin.  But  in 
order  to  perform  this  miracle,  what  restraint  must  be  exer- 
cised, what  justice  of  taste  is  requisite,  and  with  what 
singular  force  of  genius  one  must  be  endowed !  If  the 
artist  halts  halfway  in  his  task,  he  only  arrives  at  profana- 
tion. This  is  the  case  with  a  great  number  of  painters  at 
the  close  of  the  Fifteenth  Century  and  the  beginning  of  the 
Sixteenth.  For  having  presumed  upon  their  strength,  they 
have  fallen  into  impiety,  and  often  their  Virgins  look  only 
scandalous.  On  resuming  the  work  of  the  Renaissance, 
Raphael  measured  the  abyss  with  a  sure  eye  and  crossed  it 
without  an  effort.  If  La  Fornarina  is  behind  the  Virgin  of 
the  Chair ^  there  is  nothing  less  than  a  world  that  separates 
them.  The  two  beauties  are  measured  by  the  two  lives : 
terrestrial  love  put  into  Raphael's  hand  the  brush  that 
painted  the  portrait  of  the  Barberini  palace;  divine  love 
armed  the  master  with  sufficient  power  to  produce  the 
Madonna  of  the  Pitti  Palace. 


THE  MADONNA  DELLA  SEDIA  I05 

The  Virgin  of  the  Chair  raises  us  directly  to  God  by  the 
tenderness  with  which  she  surrounds  and  seems  to  want 
to  protect  Him  who  protects  all ;  but  she  is  richly  adorned, 
and  she  belongs  to  the  world  by  the  external  splendour 
with  which  the  world  surrounds  her.  She  belongs  to  it  es- 
pecially by  the  love  that  she  gives  to  Him  and  by  the  in- 
ternal sentiment  that  stamps  compassion  upon  her  beauty  ; 
compassion  the  kin  to  sadness.  Her  head,  three  quarters 
full  on  the  right,  bends  gently  towards  the  Saviour's  head, 
on  which  it  rests.  The  hair,  rather  chestnut  than  blonde, 
is  divided  in  slightly  waved  bands  and  completely  exposes 
the  ear  and  the  cheeks.  The  brow  is  beautifully  propor- 
tioned :  it  is  lower  than  in  the  Umbrian  faces,  and  higher 
than  in  the  antiques.  The  eyes,  pensive,  brilliant  and  fully 
open,  look  towards  the  left  of  the  spectator  with  a  gravity 
bordering  on  grief.'  The  nose  is  straight  and  regular,  and 
bas  nothing  of  the  particular  accent  of  the  model  that  peo- 
ple are  too  ready  to  give  Raphael  for  this  picture.  It  is 
the  same  with  the  mouth  :  it  is  of  a  medium  size,  ad- 
mirably shaped,  not  smiling  at  all  and  in  perfect  accord  with 
the  sentiment  of  the  eyes.  Its  lines  would  be  almost  severe 
if  kindness  did  not  dominate  all  in  this  face.  The  outline 
of  this  face  is  a  beautiful  oval,  neither  too  long  nor  too 
short,  and  docs  not  in  the  least  recall  the  portrait  of  the  Bar- 
bcrini  Gallery.  Therefore,  away  with  all  reminiscence  of 
La  Fornarina;   awav  with  all  living  reality  !      This  image  is 

'  An  infinity  of  reproductions  has  been  made  of  this  picture.  Nt)t  one 
of  them  (jives  a  true  idea  of  it.  However,  it  must  he  said,  in  honour  of 
French  engraving,  that  Ucsnoycr  is  the  only  one  who  has  shown  some 
comprehension  of  the  melanciioly  in  the  gaze  of  tliis  Virgin. 


I06  THE  MADONNA  BELLA  SEDIA 

purely  impersonal.  We  are  in  the  presence  of  the  Virgin  : 
it  is  she ;  she  alone  whom  we  see ;  she  alone  who  is  look- 
ing at  us.  The  external  beauty  of  the  Virgin  of  the  Chair 
is  as  great  as  anything  that  could  be  imagined,  but  the  in- 
ternal beauty  is  not  in  the  least  sacrificed  to  it.  The  chief 
characteristic  of  this  face  is  its  regularity  and  the  purity  of 
its  features.  Deterioration  of  ideas  is  always  betrayed  by 
certain  laboured  refinements,  by  something  tame,  unde- 
cided, too  personal,  or  too  feminine,  that  impairs  the  dignity 
of  the  subject.  Here,  there  is  nothing  of  that.  All  the 
lines  are  simple,  regular,  and  traced  as  though  by  inspira- 
tion. It  is  true  that  Raphael,  carried  away  by  the  genius 
of  harmony,  has  represented  his  Madonna  as  brilliantly  and 
richly  attired,  but  it  is  without  anything  jarring,  without 
anything  too  staring,  and  without  anything  hurtful  of  the 
principal  impression,  A  scarf,  admirable  in  colour,  is 
wound  around  the  crown  of  her  head  and  falls  down  to  her 
neck.  A  green  shawl,  enriched  with  various  shades  that 
respond  to  those  in  the  scarf,  envelops  the  breast,  the  right 
shoulder,  and  falls  behind  the  back,  where  it  is  confounded 
with  the  golden  fringe  that  decorates  the  back  of  the  chair. 
Beneath  this  shawl  appears  the  purple  robe,  the  sleeve  of 
which  is  tight-fitting,  with  a  cuff,  and  the  blue  mantle  that 
covers  the  knees.  The  two  hands,  one  crossed  above  the 
other  over  the  body  of  the  Infant  Jesus,  are  charming  in 
shape  and  delightfully  modelled.  Everything  in  this  ar- 
rangement is  enchanting :  in  the  entire  effect  of  this  image 
everything  is  seductive.  In  painting,  form  and  colour  are 
what  rhythm  and  song  are  in  poetry, — they  are  the  wings 


THE  MADONNA  BELLA  SEDIA  IO7 

given  to  Love  by  the  artist  and  the  poet.  Now,  Raphael 
never  soared  in  a  more  sudden  flight  than  in  this  picture. 
This  Virgin  seems  to  have  been  painted  with  the  rapidity 
of  fresco.  The  master's  hand  was  never  more  sure  of  it- 
self, nor  did  it  ever  pass  across  his  work  with  happier 
speed.  There  is  not  the  least  hesitation,  nor  the  slightest 
reservation.  The  transparent  and  fluid  colour  without 
effort  attains  to  an  incredible  seductiveness.  Nowhere 
does  Raphael  affect  a  freer,  more  spontaneous,  or  more  in- 
dependent gait.  The  head  and  hands  of  the  Virgin  are 
rigorously  fixed  by  a  preliminary  necessary  design  ;  but  that 
sumptuous  vesture  so  well  ordained  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  eye,  seems  made  during  the  course  of  the  brush ;  and 
such  is  the  marvellous  harmony  of  the  tones  and  the  truth 
of  the  lights  and  shadows,  that  this  improvisation  seems  to 
be  the  result  of  the  most  profound  calculation.  There  is 
nobody  anywhere  that  more  closely  resembles  a  beautiful 
soul ;  and  there  are  nowhere  more  musical  or  more  har- 
monious forms.  So  much  the  worse  for  those  who  only 
see  a  material  image  in  it !  What  is  flesh  ?  A  wind  that 
"  passeth  away  and  cometh  not  again."  If  there  were 
only  this  breath  in  the  Firgin  of  the  Chair^  our  eyes  might 
be  charmed,  but  our  souls  would  not  be  moved  in  the  slight- 
est degree.  Now,  not  only  does  this  Virgin  ravish  our  eyes, 
but  she  penetrates  profoundly  into  our  hearts,  establishing 
herself  there  and  definitely  taking  possession.  It  is  thus 
that,  as  Plato  says,  "  We  raise  ourselves  from  beautiful 
bodies  to  beautiful  souls  and  from  beautiful  souls  to  eternal 
beauty." 


io8  THE  MADONNA  DELLA  SEDIA 

Yet,  in  the  Virgin  of  the  Chair,  there  is  something 
still  more  elevated  and  beautiful  than  the  Virgin,  and 
that  is  the  Infant  Jesus.  Seated  on  the  blue  drapery  that 
covers  the  knees  of  the  Mother,  he  looks  fixedly  at  us,  re- 
coils, as  if  struck  vi'ith  our  miseries;  and  presses  close  against 
the  virginal  bosom  that  conceived  him.  The  body  of  the 
Saviour  is  presented  almost  in  full  profile  to  the  left  against 
Mary,  vv^hilst  his  head,  turned  tow^ards  us,  shows  a  full  face, 
A  slight  vestment  covers  his  shoulders  and  breast  and  leaves 
his  legs,  hips  and  arms  bare.  This  infant  body  is  taken 
from  life  and  belongs  w^holly  to  humanity ;  but  the  head  is 
that  af  a  God.  Three  flames  radiate  from  this  infant  head 
and  mysteriously  gleam  in  the  obscurity  of  the  background. 
The  ruffled  hair  seems  to  obey  an  impulse  that  springs  from 
the  spirit ;  the  eyes  shine  brilliantly ;  the  mouth  mth  its 
severe  lines,  is  grave,  and  the  vi^hole  countenance  is  im- 
mobile, fixed,  majestic,  solemn  and  almost  terrible.  God 
is  patient  because  He  is  eternal;  but  He  is  just  even  as 
He  is  good ;  and,  even  while  manifesting  Himself  as  the 
Lamb  that  takes  away  the  sins  of  the  world,  He  al- 
ready announces  Himself  as  the  sovereign  judge  that  must 
condemn  them.  We  are  in  the  presence  of  the  "Word 
uncreate  which  moves  matter  and  penetrates  it  with  His 
spirit,  Aleus  agitat  moletn ;  of  the  Word  incarnate,  which 
fills  the  world  invisible  with  His  corporeal  virtue,  Caro 
instaurat  mentem.  He  spake,  and  it  was  done :  he  com- 
manded, and  it  stood  fast.  In  him  was  life,  and  the  life 
was  the  light  of  men,  not  the  life  derived  from  nothingness, 
but  the  life  that  flows  from  the  eternal  and  living  genera- 


THE  MADONNA  DELLA  SEDIA  IO9 

live  force,  the  life  that  is  the  source  of  all  life.  This  In- 
fant, in  fact,  does  not  speak  a  human  language  :  "  He  light- 
ens, he  thunders,  he  astounds,  he  beats  down  every  spirit 
created  under  the  obedience  of  the  faith."  It  is  thus  that 
he  appeared  when  the  Evangelist  "  with  rapid  flight " 
cleaving  the  air,  piercing  the  clouds,  and  soaring  above 
an;^els,  virtues,  cherubs  and  seraphs  intones  his  book  with 
these  words  :  "  In  the  beginning  was  the  Word. 
The  Word  !  that  is  to  say  the  internal  word,  the  thought, 
the  reason,  the  intelligence,  the  wisdom,  the  internal  dis- 
course, sermo^  the  discourse  without  discussion,  in  which 
one  does  not  extract  one  thing  from  another  by  reasoning, 
but  the  discourse  in  which  all  is  substantially  all  truth  and 
which  is  truth  itself."  Raphael,  captivated  and  subdued  by 
an  internal  comprehension,  painted  this  Infant  with  a  calm 
hand,  exempt  from  effort  or  agitation.  That  is  why,  before 
such  a  conception,  our  reason  is  troubled,  admires  and  is 
silent. 

The  little  St.  John  the  Baptist,  in  the  background,  ef- 
faces himself  on  a  secondary  plane,  and  his  beauty,  although 
only  relative,  is  worthy  of  the  absolute  beauty  of  the  Virgin 
and  the  Infant  Jesus.  His  head,  three  quarters  to  the  left, 
bends  over  towards  the  right  shoulder  of  the  Saviour.  His 
gaze,  fixed  on  Jesus,  is  fervent  and  full  of  ardour,  from 
his  parted  lips  escape  words  that  mount  to  God.  His 
hands  are  clasped  and  his  whole  face  is  in  prayer.  This 
is  no  longer  the  St.  John  of  the  Madonna  ddla  Tenda^ 
smiling  and  naively  happy  at  the  sight  of  the  Virgin  :  it  is 
the  forerunner  who  sees  God  in  Jesus,  who  penetrates  his 


no  THE  MADONNA  DELLA  SEDIA 

greatness,  comprehends  his  justice  and  obeys  the  impulse 
of  a  spontaneous  burst  of  faith.  Raphael  thus  shows  the 
sursam  corda  of  the  Christian  soul  before  the  mystery  of 
love,  the  living  image  of  prayer  directly  inspired  by  the 
Real  Presence  of  the  Redeemer.  The  little  cross  of  reed 
in  the  arms  of  St.  John  associates  by  anticipation  this 
humble  and  ardent  prayer  with  the  idea  of  sacrifice.  In 
the  Infant  Jesus,  we  see  the  Christ,  and  in  the  little  St. 
John  we  find  all  men  who  are  illumined  by  the  light  of  the 
Word. 

Perhaps  this  picture  could  not  have  been  painted  else- 
where than  in  Rome,  or  outside  the  influences  that  were  at 
work  around  the  master.  But,  at  the  same  time,  this 
picture  proves  that  Raphael  had  come  to  dominate  those 
influences,  to  transform  them,  and  to  reconcile  them  with 
the  interests  of  a  higher  order.  A  frenzied  taste,  the  cult 
of  sensible  beauty,  a  craving  for  unbridled  pleasure,  had 
taken  hold  of  the  century  of  Leo  X.  To  a  certain  extent, 
Raphael  shared  the  passions  of  his  day,  but  he  purified 
them  by  thinking  of  the  Virgin,  and,  without  in  any  way 
diminishing  the  external  brilliance  that  charmed  his  con- 
temporaries, he  showed  them  a  splendour  before  which  he 
forced  them  to  bow,  not  only  with  admiration,  but  with  a 
fervour  with  which  they  had  been  unacquainted.  For 
three  centuries  and  a  half,  posterity  has  professed  the  same 
enthusiasm  for  this  picture,  and  this  will  be  so  as  long  as 
the  instinct  of  the  beautiful  lasts  among  men.  So  that,  if 
such  a  work  belongs  by  certain  material  ties  to  a  given 
moment  of  space  and  time,  it  is  more  particularly  of  all 


THE  MADONNA  DELLA  SEDIA  III 

times  and  places  bv  the  spirit  that  emanates  from  it. 
Nothing  can  surpass  the  elegance  of  the  Virgin  of  the  Chair, 
and  if  Raphael  some  time  afterwards  had  not  painted  the 
Sistine  Aladonria^  it  must  be  added  that  nothing  can  equal 
the  pure  beauty  of  this  Madonna  and  the  majesty  of  her 
son.  In  the  presence  of  such  a  Virgin,  we  may  say  with 
Erasmus,  in  a  lyrism  borrowed  from  profane  antiquity  but 
especially  inspired  by  religious  emotion:  "You  are  more 
brilliant  than  the  dawn,  sweeter  than  the  silver  moon, 
purer  than  the  new-blown  lily,  whiter  than  the  still  im- 
maculate snow,  more  gracious  than  the  spring-time  rose, 
more  precious  than  the  ruby,  sweeter  than  the  honey, 
dearer  than  life,  higher  than  the  skies,  and  chaster  than  the 
angels.  Hail !  noble  sanctuary  of  the  Eternal  God,  sub- 
lime throne  of  Divinity  !  " 


PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLES  I. 

{Fan  Dyck) 

JULES  GUIFFREY 

A  POETIC  legend  surrounds  the  portrait  of  Charles  I. 
like  an  aureole.  The  painter  is  supposed  to  have 
impressed  upon  the  features  of  the  unfortunate  monarch 
the  mark  of  fatality.  Even  to-day,  the  best  informed 
vi^riters  are  pleased  to  find  forebodings  of  his  sad  destiny 
upon  the  wearied  and  melancholy  face  of  the  prince.  All 
this,  however,  is  pure  fancy. 

In  vain  have  the  searchers  of  archives  discovered  and 
proclaimed  the  truth;  in  vain  has  Carpenter  exhumed  the 
authentic  and  decisive  memoir,  giving  to  the  portrait  in 
the  Louvre  its  true  title,  Le  Roy  a  la  chasse^  for  sentimental 
historians  will  long  continue  to  see  in  this  famous  canvas 
literary  and  romantic  intentions  of  which  in  all  probability 
the  painter  never  dreamed. 

During  the  year  1637,  Van  Dyck,  having  reached  the 
apogee  of  his  glory  and  reputation  and  with  the  title  of 
portrait-painter  to  the  royal  family,  the  court,  and  the  noble 
aristocracy  of  England,  found  himself  in  the  necessity  of 
asking  Charles  I.  for  the  payment  of  numerous  works  that 
had  been  accumulating  for  several  years.  His  habits  of 
'iving  and  princely  luxury  could  not  be  maintained  except 


i-oiti  nAi  I   "1    '  II  MCI. IS  1. 


PORTRAIT   OF  CHARLES  I.  II3 

at  the  cost  of  enormous  expenditure.  His  feverish,  forced 
and  consuming  industry  could  with  difficulty  fill  the  gulf 
caused  by  his  extravagances.  Therefore  he  had  to  have 
recourse  to  the  royal  benevolence  and  he  claimed  the  price 
of  his  works  presenting  the  list  upon  which  figures  the 
portrait  of  the  Roy  a  la  chasse.  He  asked  two  hundred 
pounds  for  this  canvas ;  the  price  was  reduced  to  half, 
equivalent  to  1,500  livres,  a  modest  sum,  if  one  considers 
tiie  importance  of  the  canvas  and  modern  exigencies. 
However,  Van  Dyck  was  one  of  the  best  treated  artists  of 
his  time  and  none  of  his  contemporaries  obtained  so  great 
a  reward  for  their  most  extolled  pictures. 

The  portrait  in  the  Louvre  then  does  not  represent  the 
sovereign  already  succumbing  under  the  weight  of  bad 
fortune  and  visited  by  sad  presentiments  or  melancholy 
regret ;  but  as  an  elegant  and  accomplished  cavalier,  for- 
getting the  anxieties  entailed  by  power  and  the  etiquette  of 
court  to  abandon  himself  to  the  pleasures  of  the  country. 
We  have  here,  in  some  measure,  the  pendant  to  the 
familiar  pages  that  Velasquez  has  painted  in  the  traits  of 
the  never-to-be-forgotten  Philip  IV.  in  his  rich  doublet, 
carrying  his  gun,  and  accompanied  by  his  enormous  molosse 
(hunting-dog).  With  the  one  as  with  the  other,  the  court 
portrait-painter,  after  having  rendered  upon  immense  official 
canvases  the  pomp  of  royal  majesty,  has  taken  pleasure 
in  finding  with  a  sort  of  partiality  the  familiar  every  day 
attitude,  the  true  portrayal  of  the  gentleman  surprised  in 
the  surrendering  of  himself  to  his  chosen  pleasures. 

Regarding  the   names  of  the  two  persons  accompanying 


114  PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLES  I. 

Charles  I.  divers  opinions  are  held.  The  equerry  who 
holds  the  horse  has  successively  been  given  the  name  of 
the  Due  d'Epernon,  and  Duke  of  Hamilton.  Mariette,  fol- 
lowing Walpole's  opinion,  asserts  that  this  portrait  is 
simply  that  of  the  King's  equerry,  M.  de  Saint-Antoine ;  he 
is  right. 

In  a  catalogue  of  the  collection  of  James  II.,  published 
in  England  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  our  canvas  is 
thus  designated  :  "  King  Charles  I.  and  his  equerry,  M.  de 
Saint-Antoine,  with  him."  From  this  document  another 
valuable  piece  of  information  is  gained.  The  portrait  in 
the  Louvre  did  not  leave  England  before  the  flight  of 
James  II.  How  did  it  get  to  France,  where  it  was  found 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  in  the  famous 
cabinet  of  the  Countess  de  Verrue  ?  Nothing  prevents  our 
supposing  that  James  II.  carried  with  him  in  his  flight  from 
Saint-Germain  a  certain  number  of  family  portraits,  notably 
that  of  the  Roy  a  la  chasse^  and  that,  after  a  time,  his  heir, 
at  the  end  of  his  resources,  found  it  necessary  to  part  with 
the  effigy  of  his  ancestor.  There  is  nothing  improbable  in 
this  hypothesis.  Here  has  always  rested  an  obscure  point 
difficult  to  clear  up.  Every  one  knows  that  the  succession 
of  the  famous  countess  escheated  to  the  Marquis  de  Lassay 
with  the  portrait  of  Charles  I.  The  possessions  of  the 
Marquis  de  Lassay  passed,  at  least  a  part  of  them,  to  the 
Count  de  Guiche,  and  in  the  lot  of  the  latter  Antony  Van 
Dyck's  canvas  ^  was  included. 

1  Villot  has  made  many  errors  in  his  history  of  the  portrait  of  Charles  I. ; 
that  is  why  we  consider  it  necessary  to  insist  upon  these  small  details. 


PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLES  I.  II5 

We  have  not  yet  spoken  of  the  second  person  who  ac- 
companies the  King,  and  whose  bare  head,  turned  towards 
the  distant  sea,  stands  out  from  the  sky,  behind  the  head  of 
the  equerry  who  holds  the  horse.  This  is  a  page  whose 
name  is  ignored  by  the  old  catalogues  ;  yet  this  obscure 
personage  was  destined  to  have  a  decisive  influence  upon 
the  fate  of  the  picture. 

The  Count  de  Guiche's  collection  was  sold  at  auction  in 
1770.  Charles  I.  not  having  reached  the  price  demanded 
by  the  heirs,  the  latter  bought  it  in  for  17,000  livres.  It 
was  at  this  moment  that  some  intermediary  officers,  per- 
haps from  self-interest,  christened  the  anonymous  page 
with  the  name  of  Barri,  and  persuaded  the  reigning  favour- 
ite that  the  roue  who  had  opened  the  doors  of  the  great 
apartments  of  Versailles  was  descended  from  an  old  Eng- 
lish family  allied  to  the  Stuarts.  The  Comtesse  du  Barry 
put  no  difficulties  in  the  way  to  prove  this  glorious  gene- 
alogy. She  bought  the  picture,  not  for  the  King,  as  the 
Louvre  Catalogue  says  erroneously,  but  for  her  own  col- 
lection ;  she  paid  24,000  livres  for  it.  That  was  ten  times 
the  price  the  artist  got  for  it. 

What  is  the  value  to-day  of  this  masterpiece  considered 
worthy  of  the  honour  of  a  place  in  the  Suloti  Carrel'  It 
would  be  difficult  to  say. 

The  portrait  of  Charles  I,  never  entered  the  royal  gallery 
during  the  lifetime  of  Louis  XV.  We  have  only  just  now 
related,  with  supporting  proofs  under  what  circumstances  it 
was  acquired  by  Louis  XVI.  It  is  necessary  to  insist 
upon   this   point,  because   the   account,  substantiated  by  p^ 


Il6  PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLES  I. 

Villot's  notice,  is  still  credited  by  the  most  recent  historians 
of  the  Museum. 

After  the  death  of  Louis  XV.  the  Comtesse  du  Barry, 
accustomed  to  satisfy  every  caprice  without  counting  the 
cost,  found  herself  in  an  embarrassing  position.  To  satisfy 
the  more  and  more  pressing  demands  of  her  creditors,  she 
put  within  reach  of  amateurs  the  priceless  objects  that  she 
had  acquired  in  the  happy  days  of  her  favour.  The  archi- 
tect Le  Doux,  who  had  friendly  relations  with  her,  advised 
her  to  offer  the  portrait  of  Charles  I.  to  the  King. 

The  matter  was  soon  brought  to  a  conclusion.  On  May 
8,  1775,  M.  d'Angiviller,  director  of  the  King's  buildings, 
informed  Le  Doux  that  his  proposition  was  agreed  to  and 
that  the  Comtesse  du  Barry  would  receive  24,000  livres  for 
Charles  I.  On  the  22d  of  the  same  month,  a  new  letter 
advised  the  architect  that  the  order  for  payment  was  signed 
and  that  some  one  was  going  to  Luciennes  to  take  posses- 
sion of  the  picture.  It  was  then  in  the  month  of  May, 
1775,  that  Charles  I.  a  la  chasse  entered  the  King's 
collection. 

We  have  related  in  detail  the  history  of  this  celebrated 
canvas,  leaving  no  detail  in  the  dark,  so  that  there  can  be 
no  doubt  upon  the  truthfulness  of  the  facts.  Is  it  worth 
while  to  give  a  description  of  the  picture  when  the  excellent 
reproduction  placed  before  the  eyes  of  the  reader  renders 
this  task  almost  superfluous  ?  It  would  seem  preferable  in 
ending  to  recall  the  appreciation  of  one  of  our  contempo- 
rary masters  who  has  best  penetrated  and  characterized  the 
talent  of  the  great  artists  of  Belgium  and  Holland. 


PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLES  I.  HJ 

In  the  brilliant  pages  devoted  to  Van  Dyck,  Eugene 
Fromentin  lingers  with  delight  before  the  chef  d" ceuvre  in 
the  Salon  Carre.  "  The  Charles  I.,"  he  says,  "  by  the  deep 
feeling  of  the  model  and  the  subject,  the  familiaritv  and 
nobility  of  the  style,  and  the  beauty  of  all  kinds  in  this 
exquisite  work,  the  drawing  of  the  face,  the  colour,  the 
unheard  of  values  of  rarity  and  accuracy,  and  the  quality  of 
the  work, —  Charles  /.,  to  take  only  one  example,  well- 
known  in  France, — can  bear  the  greatest  comparisons." 

After  this  eulogy  one  may  assert  without  timidity  that  of 
all  the  portraits  of  Charles  I.  painted  by  Van  Dyck, —  and 
you  can  count  at  least  twenty  scattered  throughout  the 
European  Museums,  portraits  of  the  bust,  half-length  por- 
traits, equestrian  portraits,  and  portraits  in  royal  robes, — 
the  Roy  a  la  chasse  is  perhaps  the  picture  that  gives  the  most 
faithful  and  the  most  exquisite  representation  of  the  noble 
and  unfortunate  sovereign  of  Whitehall. 


THE  PRESENTATION  IN  THE  TEMPLE 

(Titian) 

I     J.  A.  CROWE  AND  G.  B.  CAVALCASELLE 

THE  Presentation  in  the  Temple^  originally  designed  for 
the  brotherhood  of  Santa  Maria  della  Carita,  covered 
the  whole  side  of  a  room  in  the  so-called  "  Albergo,"  now 
used  for  the  exhibition  of  the  old  masters  at  Venice.  In 
this  room,  which  is  contiguous  to  the  modern  hall  in  which 
Titian's  Assunta  is  displayed  there  were  two  doors  for 
which  allowance  was  made  in  Titian's  canvas ;  and  twenty- 
five  feet — the  length  of  the  wall — is  now  the  length  of  the 
picture.  When  this  vast  canvas  was  removed  from  its 
place,  the  gaps  of  the  doors  were  filled  in  with  new  linen, 
and  painted  up  to  the  tone  of  the  original,  giving  rise  to 
the  quaint  deformity  of  a  simulated  opening  in  the  flank  of 
the  steps  leading  up  to  the  Temple,  and  a  production  of 
the  figures  in  the  left  foreground — a  boy,  a  senator  giving 
alms,  a  beggar  woman  and  two  nobles.  Strips  of  new 
stuff  were  sewn  on  above  and  below,  and  in  addition  to 
various  patches  of  restoring,  the  whole  was  toned  up,  or 
*' tuned,"  to  the  great  detriment  of  the  picture.  Notwith- 
standing these  drawbacks  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
light  is  no  longer  that  which  the  painter  contemplated,  the 
genius  of  Titian  triumphs  over  all  difficulties,  and  the  Pre- 


THE  PRESENTATION  IN  THE  TEMPLE  II9 

sentation  in  the  Tfmple  is  the  finest  and  most  complete  crea- 
tion of  Venetian  art,  since  the  Peter  Martyr  and  the  Ma-- 
donna  di  Casa,   Pesaro. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  Titian  should  go  deeper 
into  the  period  from  which  he  derived  his  gospel  subject 
than  other  artists  of  his  time.  An  ardent  admirer  of  his 
genius  has  noticed  the  propriety  with  which  he  adorned  a 
background  with  a  portico  of  Corinthian  pillars,  because 
Herod's  palace  was  decorated  with  a  similar  appendage. 
He  might  with  equal  truth  have  justified  the  country  of 
Bethlehem  transformed  into  Cadorine  hills,  Venice  sub- 
stituted for  Jerusalem,  and  Pharisees  replaced  by  Venetian 
senators.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  Titian  to  represent  a  sub- 
ject like  this  as  a  domestic  pageant  of  his  own  time,  and 
seen  in  this  light,  it  is  exceedingly  touching  and  sur- 
prisingly beautiful.  Mary  in  a  dress  of  celestial  blue  as- 
cends the  steps  of  the  temple  in  a  halo  of  radiance.  She 
pauses  on  the  first  landing  place,  and  gathers  her  skirts,  to 
ascend  to  the  second.  The  flight  is  in  profile  before  us. 
At  the  top  of  it  the  high  priest  in  Jewish  garments,  yellow 
tunic,  blue  undercoat  and  sleeves  and  white  robe,  looks 
down  at  the  girl  with  serene  and  kindly  gravity,  a  priest  in 
cardinal's  robes  at  his  side,  a  menial  in  black  behind  him, 
and  a  young  acolyte  in  red  and  yellow  holding  the  book  of 
prayer.  At  the  bottom,  there  are  people  looking  up,  some 
of  them  leaning  on  the  edge  of  the  steps,  others  about  to 
ascend, — Anna,  with  a  matron  in  companv  ;  Joachim  turn- 
ing to  address  a  friend.  Curicnis  people  press  forward  to 
witness  the  scene,  and  a  child  baits  a  little  dog  with  a  cake. 


IlO  THE  PRESENTATION  IN  THE  TEMPLE 

Behind  and  to  the  left  and  with  grave  solemnity,  some  dig- 
nitaries are  moving.  One  in  red  robe  of  state  with  a  black 
stole  across  his  shoulder  is  supposed  to  represent  Paolo 
de'  Franceschi,  at  this  time  grand-chancellor  of  Venice. 
The  noble  in  black  to  whom  he  speaks  is  Lazzaro  Crasso. 
Two  senators  follow,  whilst  a  third  still  further  back  gives 
alms  to  a  poor  mother  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  In  front 
of  the  gloom  that  lies  on  the  profile  of  steps  an  old  woman 
sits  with  a  basket  of  eggs  and  a  couple  of  fowls  at  her  feet, 
her  head  and  frame  swathed  in  a  white  hood,  which  carries 
the  light  of  the  picture  into  the  foreground.  In  a  corner  to 
the  right  an  antique  torso  receives  a  reflex  of  the  light  that 
darts  more  fully  on  the  hag  close  by.  It  seems  to  be  the 
original  model  of  the  soldiers  that  rode  in  the  battle  of  Ca- 
dore,  or  the  Emperors  that  hung  in  the  halls  of  the  palace 
of  Mantua.^ 

Uniting  the  majestic  lines  of  a  composition  perfect  in 
the  balance  of  its  masses  with  an  effect  unsurpassed  in  its 
contrasts  of  light  and  shade,  the  genius  of  the  master  has 
laid  the  scene  in  palatial  architecture  of  great  simplicity. 
On  one  side  a  house  and  colonnade  on  square  pillars,  with 
a  slender  pyramid  behind  it,  on  the  other  a  palace  and 
portico  of  coloured  marbles  in  front  of  an  edifice  richly 
patterned  in  diapered  bricks.  From  the  windows  and  bal- 
conies the  spectators  look  down  upon  the  ceremony  or  con- 
verse with  the  groups  below.  With  instinctive  tact  the 
whole  of  these  are  kept  in  focus  by  appropriate  gradations 

1  This  torso  filled  the  unoccupied  corner  of  the  picture  to  the  right  of 
the  door,  the  framework  of  which  broke  through  the  base  of  the  picture. 


THE   PRESENTATION   IN   THE  TEMPLE  121 

of  light,  which  enable  Titian  to  give  the  highest  prominence 
to  the  Virgin,  though  she  is  necessarily  smaller  than  any 
other  person  present.  The  bright  radiance  round  her  fades 
as  it  recedes  to  the  more  remote  groups  in  the  picture,  the 
forms  of  which  are  cast  into  deeper  gloom  in  proportion  as 
they  are  more  distant  from  the  halo.  The  senator  who 
gives  alms  is  darkly  seen  under  the  shade  of  the  colonnade, 
from  which  he  seems  to  have  emerged.  In  every  one  of 
these  gradations  the  heads  preserve  the  portrait  character 
peculiar  to  Titian,  yet  each  of  the  figures  is  varied  as  to 
sex,  age,  and  condition  ;  each  in  his  sphere  has  a  decided 
type,  and  all  are  diverse  in  form,  in  movement,  and 
gesture.  To  the  monumental  dignity  of  the  groups  and 
architecture  the  distance  perfectly  corresponds.  We 
admire  the  wonderful  expressiveness  of  the  painter's 
mountain  lines.  The  boulder  to  the  left,  with  its  scanty 
vegetation  and  sparse  trees,  rises  darkly  behind  the  pyramid. 
A  low  hummock  rests  dimly  in  the  rear,  whilst  a  gleam 
flits  over  remoter  crags,  crested  with  ruins  of  castles ;  and 
the  dark  heath  of  the  hill  beyond — with  the  smoke  issuing 
from  a  moss-fire — relieves  the  blue  cones  of  dolomites  that 
are  wreathed  as  it  were  in  the  mist  which  curls  into  and 
mingles  with  the  clouded  sky.  The  splendid  contrast  of 
palaces  and  Alps  tells  of  the  master  who  was  born  at 
Cadore,  yet  lived  at  Venice. 

The  harmony  of  the  colours  is  so  true  and  ringing,  and 
the  chords  arc  so  subtle,  that  the  eye  takes  in  the  scene  as 
if  it  were  one  of  natural  richness,  unconscious  of  the  means 
by  which  that  richness  is  attained.      Ideals  of  form  created 


122  THE  PRESENTATION  IN  THE  TEMPLE 

by  combinations  of  perfect  shapes  and  outlines  with  select 
proportions,  may  strike  us  in  the  Greeks  and  Florentines. 
Here  the  picture  is  built  up  in  colours,  the  landscape  is  not 
a  symbol,  but  scenic  ;  and  the  men  and  palaces  and  hills 
are  seen  living  or  life-like  in  sun  and  shade  and  air.  In 
this  gorgeous  yet  masculine  and  robust  realism  Titian 
shows  his  great  originality,  and  claims  to  be  the  noblest 
representative  of  the  Venetian  school  of  colour.^ 

Hardly  a  century  has  expired  since  Venetian  painting 
rose  out  of  the  slough  of  Byzantine  tradition,  yet  now  it 
stands  in  its  zenith.  Recruiting  its  strength  from  Jacopo 
Bellini,  who  brought  the  laws  of  perspective  from  Tuscany, 
the  schools  of  the  Rialto  expand  with  help  from  Paduan 
sources,  and  master  the  antique  as  taught  by  Donatello  and 
Mantegna.  They  found  the  monumental  but  realistic 
style  which  Gentile  Bellini  developed  in  his  Procession  of  the 
Relic,  and  Carpaccio  displayed  in  his  Ursula  Legend.  They 
seize  and  acquire  the  secrets  of  colour  by  means  of  An- 
tonello ;  and  their  chief  masters,  Giovanni  Bellini, 
Giorgione,  and  Titian,  adding  a  story  to  the  pictorial 
edifice,  bring  it  at  last  to  that  perfection  which  we  witness 

'  The  measure  of  this  canvas,  No,  487,  at  the  Venice  Academy,  is 
m.  3.75  high  by  7.80,  but  of  the  height  10  cent,  above  and  10  below  are  new. 
The  person  who  made  these  and  other  additions,  as  well  as  restorations 
noted  in  the  text,  was  a  painter  of  this  century,  named  Sebastiano  Santi. 
(Zanotto,  Pinac.  Venet.)  Besides  the  patches  described  above,  there  are 
damaging  retouches  in  the  landscape  and  sky,  in  a  figure  at  a  window  to 
the  left,  in  figures  on  the  balcony,  and  a  soldier  holding  a  halberd.  The 
face  of  St.  Anna,  and  the  dress  of  the  old  woman  in  the  foreground  are 
both  new.  Zanetti  (Pitt.  Ven.,  p.  155)  states  that  the  picture  was  cleaned 
and  the  sky  injured  in  his  time  (i8th  century). 


THE  PRESENTATION  IN  THE  TEMPLE  1 23 

in  the  Presentation  in  the  Temple.  Looking  back  a  hundred 
years,  we  find  Jacopo  Bellini's  conception  of  this  subject 
altogether  monumental.  The  long  flight  of  steps,  the 
portico  of  the  temple,  Mary  on  the  first  landing,  her 
parents  behind  her,  a  castellated  mansion  in  the  distance, 
are  all  to  be  found  in  the  sketch-book  of  1430.  Titian 
inherits  the  framework,  and  fills  it  in.  He  takes  up  and 
assimilates  what  his  predecessors  have  garnered.  He  goes 
back  to  nature  and  the  antique,  and  with  a  grand  creative 
power  sets  his  seal  on  Venetian  art  for  ever.  What  Paris 
Bordone  or  Paul  Veronese  can  do  on  the  lines  which  their 
master  laid  down  is  clear  when  we  look  at  the  Doge  and 
fisherman  of  the  first  and  the  monumental  palaces  in  the 
compositions  of  the  latter.  In  a  later  form  of  Titian's 
progress — that  which  marks  the  ceiling  pieces  of  San 
Spirito — we  trace  the  source  of  Tintoretto's  daring.  All 
inherit  something  from  Titian,  but  none  are  able  to  surpass 
him. 


y 


PROSERPINE 

{Rossetti) 

F.  G.  STEPHENS 

NOWHERE  in  Time's  vista,  where  the  forms  of  great 
men  gather  thickly,  do  we  see  many  shapes  of  those 
who,  as  painters  and  as  poets  have  been  alike  illustrious. 
Among  the  few  to  whom,  equally  on  both  accounts,  con- 
spicuous honours  have  been  paid,  none  is  superior  to 
Rossetti,  of  whose  genius  doubly  exalted  the  artists  say 
that  in  design  he  was  pre-eminent,  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  most  distinguished  poets  of  our  age  place  him  in  the 
first  rank  with  themselves.  As  to  this  prodigious,  if  not 
unique,  distinction,  of  which  the  present  age  has  not  yet, 
perhaps,  formed  an  adequate  judgment,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  with  regard  to  the  constructive  portion  of  his 
genius  Rossetti  was  better  equipped  in  verse  than  in  design. 
It  is  certain  that  our  subject  looked  upon  himself  rather 
as  a  painter  who  wrote  than  as  a  verse-maker  who  painted. 
It  is  probable  that  the  very  facility,  which,  of  course,  had 
been  won  with  enormous  pains,  and  was  maintained  with 
characteristic  energy  and  constant  care,  of  his  literary 
efforts  led  Rossetti  to  slightly  undervalue  the  rare  gifts  of 
which  his  pen  was  the  instrument,  while,  as  to  painting, 
his  hard-won  triumphs  with  design,  colour,  expression,  form, 
and  visible  beauty  of  all  sorts  seemed  to  him  the  aptest  as 


Iltovi  itfiNK. 


PROSERPINE  125 

well  as  the  most  successful  exponents  of  the  passionate 
poetry  it  was,  by  one  means  or  the  other,  his  object  to 
make  manifest.  His  mission  was  that  of  a  poet  in  art  as 
in  verse,  and,  by  devoting  the  greater  part  of  his  life  and 
all  his  more  arduous  efforts  to  the  former  means,  he  made 
it  plain  that,  notwithstanding  all  obstacles,  the  palette 
served  his  purpose  better  than  the  pen. 

The  year  1870  did  not  witness  the  completion  of  any 
important  painting,  a  shortcoming  for  which  the  glorious 
Proserpine^  that  had  its  inception  In  a  drawing  of  Mrs. 
Morris,  dated  187 1,  made  ample  amends.  Although  the 
oil  picture  of  this  theme,  which  Mr.  W.  A.  Turner  lent 
to  the  Manchester  Exhibition  in  1882,  and  as  No.  86  to 
the  Burlington  Club  in  1883,  is  dated  1877,  I  consider  it 
under  the  earlier  date.  It  represents  at  life-size,  a  single 
figure  of  Proserpine  in  Hades,  holding  in  her  hand  the 
pomegranate,  by  partaking  of  which  she  precluded  her  re- 
turn to  earth.*  She  is  passing  along  a  gloomy  corridor  in 
her  palace,  and,  on  the  wall  behind  her,  a  sharply  defined 
space  of  light  has  fallen.  It  is  the  cool,  bluish,  silvery 
light  of  the  moon,  that  because  of  some  open  door 
far  overhead  has  penetrated  the  subterranean  dimness, 
flashing  down  for  a  moment  on  the  wall,  revealing  the  ivy- 
tendrils  that  languish  in  the  shade,  displaying  the  Queen, 
her  features,  the  abundant   masses  of  her  hair,  which  seem 

'  In  countless  early  Italian  pictures  the  bitten  pomegranate  is  a  well 
understood  emblem  of  sorrow  and  pain.  Hence  it  often  occurs  in  the 
hand  of  the  Infant  Christ,  who  in  several  exami)les,  presses  tlie  fruit  to 
the  lips  of  Ills  mother.  On  this  accuunt,  no  doubt,  Kossctli  placed  the 
pomegranate  in  the  hand  of   Proserpine. 


126  PROSERPINE 

to  have  become  darker  than  was  ever  known  on  the  earth 
above,  and  the  sorrowfulness  of  her  face.  It  shows  also 
the  slowly  curling  smoke  of  an  incense-burner  (the  attribute 
of  a  goddess)  which,  in  the  still  air  of  the  gallery,  circles 
upward,  and  spreading,  vanishes.  Proserpine  is  clad  in  a 
steel-blue  robe,  that  fits  loosely  her  somewhat  slender, 
slightly  wasted,  but  noble  frame  of  antique  mould.  It 
seems  that  she  moves  slowly  with  moody  eyes  instinct  with 
slowly  burning  anger;  yet  she  is  outwardly  still,  if  not 
serene,  and  very  sad  in  all  her  stateliness  ;  too  grand  for 
complaint.  In  these  eyes  is  the  deep  light  of  a  great 
spirit,  and,  without  seeing  or  heeding,  they  look  beyond  the 
gloom  before  her.  Her  fully-formed  lips,  purplish  now, 
but  ruddy  formerly,  and  once  moulded  by  passion,  are  com- 
pressed, the  symbols  of  a  strenuous  soul  yearning  for  free- 
dom, and,  with  all  their  pride,  suffering  rather  than  enjoy- 
ing goddess-ship.  The  even-tinted  cheeks  are  rather  flat ; 
the  face,  so  wide  is  the  brow,  is  almost  triangular,  the  nose 
like  that  of  a  grand  antique.  These  features  are  set  in 
masses  of  bronze-black  and  crimped  hair,  darkly  lustrous 
as  it  is  that  encompasses  the  head,  and  flows  like  an 
abundant  mantle  over  her  shoulders  and  bust.  The  won- 
der of  the  picture  is  in  the  face.  The  light  cast  on  the 
wall  throws  the  head  in  strong  relief;  she  turns  slowly  to- 
wards the  distant  gleam ;  the  ivy  branch  curves  downwards, 
and  assists  with  the  swaying  lines  of  the  drapery,  the  com- 
position of  the  whole.^ 

^Rossetti  wrote  to  Mrs.  Rae, — "October  12th,  1877,     The  present  one 
iProserJitne']  belonging  to  myself,  was  begun  before  Leyland's  [of  1873], 


PROSERPINE  127 

Rosetti  wrote  a  sonnet  in  Italian,  and  an  English  version 
of  the  same,  both  of  which  are  inscribed  on  the  frame  of 
the  picture  in  question.     The  latter  is  as  follows : 

Proserpina. 

"  Afar  away  the  light  that  brings  cold  cheer 
Unto  this  wall, — one  instant  and  no  more 
Admitted  at  my  distant  palace  door. 
Afar  the  flowers  of  Enna  from  this  drear 
Dire  fruit,  which,  tasted  once,  must  thrall  me  here. 
Afar  those  skies  from  this  Tartarean  grey 
That  chills  me  ;   and  afar,  how  far  away. 
The  nights  that  shall  be  from  the  days  that  were. 

**  Afar  from  mine  own  self  I  seem,  and  wing 

Strange  ways  in  thought,  and  listen  for  a  sign  : 
And  still  some  heart  unto  some  soul  doth  pine, 
(Whose  sounds  mine  inner  sense  is  fain  to  bring. 
Continually  together  murmuring,) — 

*  Woe's  me  for  thee,  unhappy  Proserpine  ! '  " 

These  are  indeed  profound  sighs,  worthy  of  a  goddess  of 
the  antique  mould,  and  even  sadder  than  the  picture  to 
which  they  refer.  As  to  their  subject,  every  friend  of  the 
painter   knew   that   he   was   prouder  of  having  invented  it 

and  thus  had  the  immense  advantage  of  the  first  inspiration  from  nature. 
It  is  unqucstionahly  the  finer  of  the  two,  and  is  the  very  flower  of  my 
work.  .  .  .  You  may  perhaps  have  seen  an  article  in  the  Athetucttm 
relating  to  some  pictures  of  mine  completed  at  that  time,  and  among 
which  this  is  the  first  mentioned.  The  size  is  the  same  as  Lcyland's,  the 
price  1,000  guineas."  Mr.  Leyland's  version  was  sold  in  May,  1892,  for 
540  guineas;  it  w.-vs  No.  314  at  the  Academy  1883.  Mr.  Turner's  version 
ii  that  which  Mr.  W.  Rosselti  distinguishes  as  No.  3,  of  tlie  rather 
numerous  category  of  I\oierpinei ;  it  now  helongs  to  Mr.  C.  Butler,  an  J 
u  that  which  the  {^aintcr  himself  thought  highest  of. 


128  PROSERPINE 

than  of  his  share  in  devising,  or  rather  applying  to  art  any 
other  theme  in  which  he  excelled.  Reckoning  The  Bride 
as  his  technical  chef  d'ceuvre^  I  place  Proserpine  next  to  it, 
not  because  it  is  as  well  or  better  painted  than  half  a  dozen 
of  his  capital  pieces,  severally,  but  on  account  of  the  com- 
plete originality  of  its  theme.  On  the  other  hand  it  should 
be  remembered  that,  while  he  produced  at  least  four  or  five 
versions  of  Proserpine^  he  never  ventured  on  a  second 
Bride. 

The  disastrous  use  of  chloral,  which  was  ultimately  to 
insure  his  ruin,  while  it  certainly  did  not  act  alone  in  pro- 
moting that  catastrophe,  had  not,  in  1871,  although  he  be- 
came addicted  to  it  more  than  two  years  before,  made  deep 
inroads  upon  our  poet's  energies,  nor  reduced  his  power  in 
art.  But  it  is  noteworthy  that,  some  time  before  1868, 
when  chloral  came  to  his  hands,  nearly  all  the  subjects  of 
his  pen  and  brush  were  more  or  less  desponding  ;  of  those 
none  is  sadder  than  Proserpine.  At  this  time  the  chivalric 
and  romantic  subjects  he  had  affected  so  late  as  the  Tris- 
tram and  Iseult  of  1867,  disappeared  from  his  repertory,  and 
gave  place  to  the  woe  of  Ceres'  daughter,  the  mournful 
despair  of  La  Pia^  the  sad  pity  of  the  Donna  della  Finestra^ 
the  ominous  agony  of  Pandora.,  the  sorrowing  of  Dante  in 
the  Dream.,  and  the  vague  melancholy  of  Veronica  Veronese^ 
whose  music  is  a  dirge.  Rossetti  was  not  the  man  to  "  be 
sad  o'  nights  out  of  mere  wantonness,"  and  therefore  we 
must  seek  a  cause  for  his  selecting  themes  so  gloomy  and 
so  woebegone  as  these,  and  may  perhaps  find  it  in  the  in- 
sidious effects  of  the  drug  which  precipitated,  though  it  did 


PROSERPINE  129 

not  cause  his  downfall, — and  long  before  he  had  reached 
the  allotted  goal  of  man's  existence — left  desolate  that 
noble  "  House  of  Life,"  whose  inner  treasures  his  poetry 
and  painting  set  forth  with 

*'  Such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen.** 


THE  OLD  SHEPHERD'S  CHIEF  MOURNER 

[Lajidseer) 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

IN  the  15th  lecture  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  incidental 
notice  is  taken  of  the  distinction  between  those  excel- 
lencies in  the  painter  which  belong  to  him  as  such,,  and 
those  which  belong  to  him  in  common  with  all  men  of  in- 
tellect, the  general  and  exalted  powers  of  which  art  is  the 
evidence  and  expression,  not  the  subject.  But  the  distinc- 
tion is  not  there  dwelt  upon  as  it  should  be,  for  it  is  owing 
to  the  slight  attention  ordinarily  paid  to  it,  that  criticism  is 
open  to  every  form  of  coxcombry,  and  liable  to  every  phase 
of  error.  It  is  a  distinction  on  which  depends  all  sound 
judgment  of  the  rank  of  the  artist,  and  all  just  appreciation 
of  the  dignity  of  art. 

Painting,  or  art  generally,  as  such,  with  all  its  technicali- 
ties, difficulties,  and  particular  ends,  is  nothing  but  a  noble 
and  expressive  language,  invaluable  as  the  vehicle  of 
thought,  but  by  itself  nothing.  He  who  has  learned  what 
is  commonly  considered  the  whole  art  of  painting,  that  is, 
the  art  of  representing  any  natural  object  faithfully,  has  as 
yet  only  learned  the  language  by  which  his  thoughts  are  to 
be  expressed.  He  has  done  just  as  much  towards  being 
that  which  we  ought  to  reSpeCt  as  a  great  painter,  as  a  man 


THE  OLD  SHEPHERD'S  CHIEF  MOURNER         1 3: 

who  has  learned  how  to  express  himself  grammatically  and 
melodiously  has  towards  being  a  great  poet.  The  lan- 
guage is,  indeed,  more  difficult  of  acquirement  in  the  one 
case  than  in  the  other,  and  possesses  more  power  of  de- 
lighting the  sense,  while  it  speaks  to  the  intellect,  but  it  is, 
nevenheless,  nothing  more  than  language,  and  all  those 
excellencies  which  are  peculiar  to  the  painter  as  such,  are 
merely  what  rhythm,  melody,  precision  and  force  are  in  the 
words  of  the  orator  and  the  poet,  necessary  to  their  great- 
ness, but  not  the  tests  of  their  greatness.  It  is  not  by  the 
mode  of  representing  and  saying,  but  by  what  is  repre- 
sented and  said,  that  the  respective  greatness  of  the  painte: 
or  the  writer  is  to  be  finally  determined. 

Speaking  with  strict  propriety,  therefore,  we  should  call 
a  man  a  great  painter  only  as  he  excelled  in  precision  and 
force  in  the  language  of  lines,  and  a  great  versifier,  as  he. 
excelled  in  precision  or  force  in  the  language  of  words.  A 
great  poet  would  then  be  a  term  strictly,  and  in  precisely 
the  same  sense  applicable  to  both,  if  warranted  by  the  char- 
acter of  the  images  or  thoughts  which  each  in  their  respect- 
ive language  conveyed. 

Take,  for  instance,  one  of  the  most  perfect  poems  or 
pictures  (I  use  the  words  as  synonymous)  which  modern 
times  have  seen:— the  Old  Shepherd's  Chief  Mourner. 
Here  the  exquisite  execution  of  the  glossy  and  crisp  hair  of 
the  dog,  the  bright  sharp  touching  of  the  green  bough  be- 
side it,  the  clear  painting  of  the  wood  of  the  coffin  and  the 
folds  of  the  blanket,  arc  language — language  clear  and  ex- 
pressive  in    the   highest  degree.      But  the  close   pressure  of 


132        THE  OLD  SHEPHERD'S  CHIEF  MOURNER 

the  dog's  breast  against  the  wood,  the  convulsive  clinging 
of  the  paws,  which  has  dragged  the  blanket  off  the  trestle, 
the  total  powerlessness  of  the  head  laid,  close  and  motion- 
less, upon  its  folds,  the  fixed  and  tearful  fall  of  the  eye  in 
its  utter  hopelessness,  the  rigidity  of  repose  which  marks 
that  there  has  been  no  motion  nor  change  in  the  trance  of 
agony  since  the  last  blow  was  struck  on  the  coffin-lid,  the 
quietness  and  gloom  of  the  chamber,  the  spectacles  mark- 
ing the  place  where  the  Bible  was  last  closed,  indicating 
how  lonely  has  been  the  life — how  unwatched  the  depart- 
ure of  him  who  is  now  laid  solitary  in  his  sleep ; — these  are 
all  thoughts — thoughts  by  which  the  picture  is  separated  at 
once  from  hundreds  of  equal  merit,  as  far  as  mere  painting 
goes,  by  which  it  ranks  as  a  work  of  high  art,  and  stamps 
its  author,  not  as  the  neat  imitator  of  the  texture  of  a  skin, 
or  the  fold  of  a  drapery,  but  as  the  Man  of  Mind. 

It  is  not,  however,  always  easy,  either  in  painting  or 
literature,  to  determine  where  the  influence  of  language 
stops,  and  where  that  of  thought  begins.  Many  thoughts 
are  so  dependent  upon  the  language  in  which  they  are 
clothed,  that  they  would  lose  half  their  beauty  if  otherwise 
expressed.  But  the  highest  thoughts  are  those  which  are 
least  dependent  on  language,  and  the  dignity  of  any  com- 
position and  praise  to  which  it  is  entitled,  are  in  exact 
proportion  to  its  independency  of  language  or  expression. 
A  composition  is  indeed  usually  most  perfect,  when  to  such 
intrinsic  dignity  is  added  all  that  expression  can  do  to 
attract  and  adorn ;  but  in  every  case  of  supreme  excellence 
this  all  becomes  as  nothing.     We  are  more  gratified  by  the 


THE  OLD  SHEPHERD'S  CHIEF  MOURNER         1 33 

simplest  lines  or  words  which  can  suggest  the  idea  in  its 
own  naked  beauty,  than  by  the  robe  or  the  gem  which 
conceal  while  they  decorate ;  we  are  better  pleased  to  feel 
bv  their  absence  how  little  they  could  bestow,  than  by  their 
presence  how  much  they  can  destroy.  There  is  therefore 
a  distinction  to  be  made  between  what  is  ornamental  in 
language  and  what  is  expressive. 


THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  FISH 

{Raphael) 

F.  A.  GRUYER 

\  ^TT^HE  Virgin,  having  descended  from  the  skies,  is  seated 

X  upon  earth  with  her  divine  Son  surrounded  by  vari- 
ous personages.  Her  throne,  only  one  of  the  uprights  of 
which,  richly  ornamented  in  the  antique  taste,  is  visible,  is 
placed  on  a  slightly  raised  platform.  One  step  in  the  form 
of  a  rectangular  parallelopiped  that  occupies  the  centre  of 
the  foreground  leads  up  to  it.  The  wood  of  the  whole 
construction  is  of  a  bright  colour.  On  the  right,  an  old 
man  is  kneeling  with  a  lion  crouching  at  his  feet.  On 
the  left,  a  youth  is  led  forward  by  an  angel.  This  youth 
carries  a  fish ;  whence  arises  the  name  by  which  this  picture 
is  known.  What  is  the  motive  of  this  picture,  and  what 
is  its  precise  meaning  ?  Vasari  expressly  says  that  the 
Madonna  is  between  St.  Jerome,  the  angel  Raphael  and 
Tobit :  Dentro  vi  e  la  Nostra  Donna^  San  Girolamo  vestito 
da  cardlnale^  ed  uno  Angela  Rajffaello  ch'' accompagna  Tobia. 
This  being  admitted,  people  asked  how  the  young  captive 
of  Nineveh  was  thus  brought  into  the  company  of  the 
Bethlehem  recluse,  and  for  a  long  time  people  did  not  see 
the  bonds  that  united  these  two  figures  of  such  different 
periods  and  characters.     Thus,  some  people  concluded  that 


1  III.     \  IIH.I  S     c.l       I  III.     I   ISH. 


THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  FISH  1 35 

Raphael  had  merely  obeyed  a  pictorial  fantasy  ;  whilst 
others,  seeking  a  moral  meaning  in  so  beautiful  a  work 
and  finding  none  in  V^asari's  description,  have  denounced 
this  description  as  false  and  have  gone  to  some  pains  to 
substitute  a  complicated  allegory  for  a  simple  picture  of 
religious  history.  Both  these  opinions  are  equally  far  from 
the  truth.  Those  who  deny  to  Raphael  the  intervention 
of  reason  and  logic  in  the  composition  of  such  a  picture 
are  evidently  wrong ;  and  those  who  seek  a  far-fetched 
explanation  in  the  allegory  cannot  be  right.  But  outside 
an  interpretation  at  any  cost  and  an  absolute  denial  of  any 
interpretation  there  is  still  room  for  the  truth.  If  on  the 
one  hand,  we  hold  by  Vasari's  text ;  while  on  the  other 
hand,  we  maintain  that  a  work  of  such  beauty  must  have 
been  ripely  thought  out  and  strongly  intended  in  every 
part,  we  have  no  difficulty,  when  we  recall  the  spirit  of 
the  personages  and  go  back  to  the  origin  of  the  picture, 
in  finding  the  reason  why  St.  Jerome  and  Tobit  are  in 
juxtaposition. 

And  first,  the  questions  of  anachronism  here  are  puerile. 
When  it  is  a  question  of  the  Virgin  in  glory,  time  and 
place  do  not  count.  What  are  centuries  by  the  side  of 
eternity  ;  and  what  is  the  earth  by  the  side  of  immensity  ? 
Such  subjects  only  depend  upon  the  Christian  ideal.  More- 
over, what  is  there  to  shock  one  in  meeting  St.  Jerome  in 
Tobit's  company,  in  the  Firgin  of  the  Fish^  when  in  the 
Fo/lgno  Madonna  we  find  the  same  St.  Jerome  in  the  com- 
pany of  St.  John  the  Baptist  and  St.  I'Vancis  D'Assisi  .' 
And    .more    than    this  ;    tlie   motives   that   determined  Sigis- 


136  THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  FISH 

mond  Conti  to  surround  himself  with  such  or  such  saints 
are  unknown  to  us,  whilst  we  can  easily  discover  the  rela- 
tion between  St.  Jerome  and  Tobit.  In  the  earliest  Chris- 
tian age,  the  Book  of  Tobit  was  considered  scarcely  more 
than  a  religious  and  moral  apologue,  not  in  the  least  ortho- 
dox. It  is  true  that  St.  Polycarp  in  the  Second  Century 
and  St.  Cyprian  in  the  Third  speak  of  the  Book  of  Tobit 
as  an  inspired  book ;  but  the  question  was  far  from  being 
settled;  and,  at  the  beginning  of  the  Fourth  Century,  the 
Council  of  Laodicea  does  not  mention  this  book  among 
the  Lessons  recommended  in  the  churches.  Then  comes 
St.  Jerome,  who,  in  the  name  of  Christianity,  adopts  the 
two  Tobits  and  causes  their  history  to  be  put  in  the  Vul- 
gate. Before  this  imposing  authority,  contradiction  ceased  : 
the  Councils  of  Hippo  and  Carthage,  held  at  the  close  of 
the  Fourth  Century  and  early  in  the  Fifth,  consecrated  the 
Book  of  Tobit,  and  although  the  Church  still  thought  it 
well  to  adjourn  her  solemn  decision  for  nearly  a  thousand 
years,  the  order  of  the  founder  of  the  Christian  exegesis 
prevailed  from  that  date  at  Rome  and  in  the  West  over  all 
disagreements.  This  being  established,  what  can  be  more 
simple  to  explain  than  the  picture  in  the  Madrid  Museum  ? 
By  the  simultaneous  presence  of  the  youthful  Tobit,  the 
angel  and  St.  Jerome  at  the  foot  of  the  Madonna's  throne, 
Raphael,  anticipating  the  decision  of  the  Council  of  Trent 
by  about  thirty  years,  maintains  the  Ninevite  captive  in  the 
rank  of  the  prophets  and  proclaims  the  canonicity  of  the 
version  to  which,  moreover,  Rome  has  pinned  her  faith  in 
all  ages.     Tobit,  still  a  child,  comes  trembling  before  the 


THE  VIRGIN   OF   THE  FISH  137 

Saviour.  Before  recognizing  the  prophet's  mission,  the 
Virgin  hesitates,  and  thus  recalls  the  hesitation  of  the 
Church.  The  Infant  Jesus,  on  the  contrary,  resolutely 
pronounces  in  favor  of  Tobit  and  with  a  gesture  confirms 
the  authenticity  of  the  Book  admitted  by  St.  Jerome.  All 
the  personages  brought  together  in  this  picture  have  there- 
fore their  necessary  relations  and  their  rational  linking. 

But  being  given  the  opportunity  of  St.  Jerome  and  Tobit 
in  company,  what  particular  motive  had  Raphael  in  placing 
beside  the  Virgin  a  Biblical  character  who  historically  pre- 
ceded Jesus  Christ  by  more  than  650  years  ?  To  re- 
solve this  problem,  we  must  remember  the  destination  of 
the  picture  and  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
painted.  It  was  in  15 14:  three  years  had  already  passed 
since  Raphael  had  painted  the  Foligno  Madonna.  Julius  II. 
was  dead,  Leo  X.  had  taken  possession  of  the  pontifical 
chair,  and  the  Attila  fresco  in  the  Heliodorus  Chamber  had 
just  been  completed.  It  was  then  that  the  Dominicans 
of  the  church  of  San  Domenico  Maggiore,  at  Naples,  asked 
Raphael  for  a  Virgin  in  Glory  for  their  chapel  of  Crocifisso. 
In  this  chapel  was  the  crucifix  which,  according  to  the 
legend,  spoke  to  St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  and  before  this 
crucifix  those  who  suffered  from  ophthalmia  came  and 
prostrated  themselves.  Now  what  was  more  natural  than 
the  choice  of  the  young  Tobit  to  speak  in  such  a  place  to 
the  souls  of  unfortunates  threatened  with  the  loss  of  sight, 
and  at  what  more  timely  season  could  hope  and  faith  have 
been  awakened  in  them  ?  Might  not  (jod  repeat  for  each 
of  them  the   miracle   he  had  performed  in    Tobit's  favour  f 


138  THE  VIRGIN  OP  THE  FISH 

Thus  nothing  in  Raphael's  picture  was  put  in  by  chance. 
The  selection  of  the  personages  is  subordinate  to  the  sub- 
ject, which  in  turn  is  determined  by  the  destination  of  the 
picture.  Everything  is  linked  and  bound  together  in  this 
composition,  and  posterity,  that  has  consecrated  it  under 
the  name  of  the  Virgin  of  the  Fish  has  instinctively  fixed  its 
aim,  its  meaning  and  its  true  intent.  The  examination  of 
each  figure  separately  will  convince  us  of  the  logical  and 
necessary  order  of  the  ideas  contained  in  this  admirable 
work. 

The  Virgin  with  the  Infant  Jesus,  dominating  the  per- 
sonages surrounding  her,  is  the  principal  figure  of  the 
picture.  Seated  and  seen  almost  full-faced,  the  body  about 
three-quarters  right  towards  St.  Jerome,  and  the  head  three- 
quarters  left  towards  Tobit,  she  holds  her  divine  Son  in 
both  arms  and  seems  to  be  trying  to  restrain  His  eagerness 
to  go  to  the  young  Ninevite  captive.  The  reserved  atti- 
tude of  the  head,  the  gaze  so  calm  in  its  investigation,  the 
mouth  ready  to  soften,  but  still  immobile  and  mute,  the 
prudent  movement  of  the  body  and  the  arms,  all  reveal 
Mary's  hesitation  in  recognizing  the  vocation  of  the 
prophet.  This  figure,  so  profoundly  human,  has  some- 
thing of  the  grandiose  dignity  of  the  antique  conceptions  at 
the  same  time  that  it  preserves  that  Christian  virginity  that 
forces  prayer  and  invites  love.  Without  losing  any  of  the 
sovereign  humility  that  was  hers  upon  earth,  the  Virgin  has 
become  regally  glorious  in  eternity  :  she  is  the  Omnipotentia 
supplex  who  has  said  of  herself:  "In  me  is  all  the  hope 
of  life   and   of  virtue."     Her  head  is  beautifully  formed. 


THE  VIRGIN   OF  THE  FISH  I39 

broadly  developed  at  the  crown,  without  heaviness  below, 
and  perfectly  smooth  in  its  entire  outline.  The  brow  is 
high,  noble  and  full  of  intelligence;  and  the  hair  that  crowns 
it  is  very  simply  arranged  in  bands.  The  eyes,  lowered 
upon  Tobit,  possess  great  calm  and  extreme  sweetness. 
The  form  of  the  eyelids,  the  curve  of  the  brows  and  the 
flat  part  of  the  nose  that  prolongs  the  surface  of  the  fore- 
head are  all  irreproachable.  The  mouth  is  of  medium  size 
and  devoid  of  all  primness.  The  cheeks,  full  but  not  at  all 
pasty,  present  none  of  those  artifices  of  modelling  by  which 
the  artist,  often  guided  by  a  seductive  nature,  arrives  at  the 
pretty  without  attaining  the  beautiful.  This  face  is  scru- 
pulously inspired  by  reality  and  recalls  the  highest  tradi- 
tions; it  is  simple,  restrained,  and  touches  the  sublime  by 
suffusing  our  hearts  with  the  idea  of  a  superhuman  kind- 
ness. The  pose  and  adjustment  of  this  figure  also  con- 
tribute to  the  same  impression.  In  the  position  of  the 
body,  the  gesture  of  the  arms  and  the  action  of  the  legs, 
everything  is  full  of  ease ;  but  the  serenity  has  nothing  in  it 
to  engender  monotony,  and  the  idea  of  the  immutable  ex- 
pression of  fate  is  the  negation  of  immobility.  At  the 
same  time  that  the  shoulders,  drawn  by  the  movement  of 
the  head,  turn  to  the  left  towards  Tobit,  the  arms  are 
drawn  back  sharply  to  the  right  towards  St.  Jerome  to  hold 
back  the  Infant  Jesus.  The  legs  also  keep  their  primitive 
position  with  its  tendency  towards  the  left,  and  from  this 
double  combination  results  a  variety  and  spontaneity  of 
attitude  that  would  have  been  an  obstacle  to  the  majesty 
of  the  Virgin   if  Raphael   by  a   masterly  interpretation  had 


140  THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  FISH 

not  known  how  to  make  the  vivacity  of  a  natural  move- 
ment accord  with  the  quietude  inseparable  from  the  Virgin 
in  glory.  The  costume  is  the  simplest  that  could  be 
imagined.  A  white  veil  is  twined  in  the  hair  around  a 
tress  that  encircles  the  head  and  forms  a  diadem ;  thence  it 
falls  upon  the  shoulders  and  reaches  the  breast.  There  is 
nothing  to  find  fault  with  in  the  humility  of  this  arrange- 
ment, and  yet  the  art  with  which  the  effect  has  been 
attained  is  such  that  no  other  head-dress  could  exalt  the 
dignity  of  the  Virgin  to  such  a  degree.  Thus,  where 
Leo  X.'s  too  pagan  contemporaries  found  a  motive  for 
admiration,  even  the  Old  Masters,  fond  of  severity,  would 
have  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  applaud.  Raphael,  in  a 
higher  harmony  had  reconciled  the  rights  of  beauty  and  the 
exigences  of  faith.  A  pure  blue  robe,  of  a  severe  cut  and 
without  any  ornament,  outlines  the  arm  that  is  visible,  and 
leaves  the  neck  bare.  This  robe  is  for  the  most  part 
covered  by  a  large  mantle  of  stronger  blue,  which,  thrown 
over  the  knees,  envelops  all  the  lower  part  of  the  figure, 
and  only  shows  the  extremity  of  the  left  foot,  which  is  bare 
and  of  a  very  beautiful  shape.  Nothing  could  be  more  severe 
or  graceful  than  this  whole  eff^ect  in  which  the  colour  is  in 
harmony  with  the  simplicity  of  line.  The  fresh  and 
transparent  rose  of  the  flesh  and  the  blonde  of  the  hair  are 
in  enchanting  accord  with  the  white  of  the  veil  and  the  two 
blues  of  the  robe  and  mantle.  A  masterly  hand,  and  one 
sure  of  itself,  has  broadly  disposed  rapid  effects  that  yet 
have  nothing  abrupt  in  them,  and  co-ordinated  the  colours 
in   accordance   with   the    mysterious  laws  of  the  noblest 


THE  VIRGIN  or  THE  FISH  I4I 

harmony.  The  clear  and  limpid  tones  almost  remind  us 
of  the  tones  of  fresco.  Light  is  everywhere  in  this  central 
figure  on  which  the  spectator's  attention  is  to  be  principally 
fixed  :  it  radiates  even  in  the  diaphanous  shadows  through 
which  we  sec  the  contours  and  modelled  forms.  The  draperies 
are  disposed  with  a  taste  that  Raphael  himself  has  rarely 
equalled  :  they  cover  all  without  hiding  anything  and  render 
a  strict  account  of  the  parts  they  envelop.  There  is  no 
ornament,  nor  embroidery  of  any  kind.  The  idea  of 
absolute  beauty  is  born  of  the  sobriety  of  the  colour  and 
the  grandeur  and  purity  of  the  lines.  We  think  of  Samuel 
Rogers'  Madonna  and  the  Madonna  della  Tenda^  but  on 
comparing  these  with  the  Virgin  of  the  Fish  we  find  a 
greater  nobility  and  beauty  in  the  latter.  What  is  par- 
ticularly remarkable  is  that  in  proportion  as  Raphael  ap- 
proaches perfection  and  soars  towards  that  impersonal  ideal 
by  which  Antiquity  was  attracted  as  he  was,  he  brings  more 
heart  and  soul  to  the  expression  of  his  idea.  In  a  burst  of 
sincere  enthusiasm,  Vasari  has  said  :  "  Raphael  has  shown 
what  beauty  can  be  put  into  the  face  of  a  Virgin,  by  giving 
modesty  to  the  eyes,  honour  to  the  brow,  grace  to  the  nose, 
and  virtue  to  the  mouth.  No  Virgin  merits  this  eulogy 
more  than  the  Virgin  of  the  Fish,  And  yet  it  must  be  com- 
pleted by  the  addition  of  the  most  exquisite  of  all  human 
quality, — kindness  ;  for  one  of  the  most  individual  and 
permanent  traits  of  Raphael's  Virgins  is  that  they  only 
appear  to  be  beautiful  because  thev  arc  good. 

The   Infant  Jesus  completes   and  explains  the  intent  of 
the  picture  with  a  vivacity  of  expression  and  a  spontancitj- 


142  THE  VIRGIN   OF  THE  FISH 

of  movement  that  are  decisive  and  irresistible.  He  recog- 
nizes Tobit  as  one  of  his  own,  and  tries  to  spring  towards 
him.  While  with  his  left  hand  and  arm  reaching  backward 
and  lying  in  St.  Jerome's  bible  he  affirms  the  authenticity 
of  the  Scripture,  with  his  right  hand  extended  forward  he 
seems  to  want  to  draw  Tobit  towards  him,  to  hold  and 
caress  him.  His  head  also,  three  quarters  right  and  bent 
forwards,  leans  towards  Tobit  and  rests  gently  against  the 
Virgin's  cheek ;  he  wants  to  influence  his  Mother  and  make 
her  also  decide  in  favour  of  the  Ninevite  captive.  All  this 
is  clearly  indicated  and  no  doubt  as  to  Raphael's  intention 
seems  possible  to  us.  The  countenance  of  this  Infant 
Jesus  is  serious,  serene  and,  like  the  Virgin's,  perfectly  kind. 
The  eyes  are  bright,  and  the  gaze,  benevolent  as  it  is,  re- 
mains full  of  authority ;  the  nose,  mouth  and  all  the  fea- 
tures are  delicately  and  firmly  drawn,  and  express  a  truly 
religious  solemnity  at  the  same  time  as  an  almost  familiar 
sentiment.  The  naked  body  is  drawn  and  modelled  with 
perfection  :  it  is  nature  herself  with  the  spontaneity  of  her 
movements  and  her  gestures.  But  what  elegance  there  is 
in  the  form,  and  what  discernment  in  the  choice  of  the  pre- 
cise moment  when  the  real  touches  the  ideal !  The  colour 
is  also  delightful :  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  brush  more 
supple,  learned,  free,  scrupulous,  or  independent.  All  the 
science  and  all  the  taste  possible  would  not  suffice  for  the 
production  of  such  works ;  genius  is  required,  and  Raphael 
so  constantly  visited  by  inspiration  has  rarely  been  more 
highly  inspired.  Here,  however,  there  is  none  of  that  ter- 
rible majesty  by  which  Raphael  (in    the  Sistine  Madonna) 


THE   VIRGIN   OF   THE   FISH  I43 

makes  us  see  in  a  little  child  the  arbiter  of  the  world  and 
the  Sovereign  Judge.  The  Bambino  still  mingles  with  man- 
kind, gives  himself  up  naively  to  them  and  seeks  to  subju- 
gate them  with  love.  No  trait  of  severity  is  revealed  in 
him,  hut  all  the  external  signs  of  sweetness  and  kindness 
are  in  evidence.  In  order  to  gain  hearts,  the  Infant  Jesus 
dons  the  simple  graces  of  humanity  and  to  encourage  hu- 
man weakness  he  makes  himself  really  a  little  child. 

The  youthful  Tobit,  presented  and  supported  by  the 
angel,  is  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  Madonna's  throne  and 
imploring  the  Word  of  God.  Nothing  can  surpass  the 
fervour  and  beauty  of  these  two  figures  that  appear  in  this 
picture  as  the  exalted  image  of  faith,  hope  and  love. 

Tobit  bows  at  the  Madonna's  feet.  He  is  a  charming 
youth,  viewed  in  right  profile,  in  an  attitude  at  once  re- 
spectful, timid  and  confiding.  His  head,  very  animated 
and  very  warm  in  tone,  is  of  rare  beauty.  Long  curls  of 
golden  blonde  fall  upon  his  shoulders.  His  gaze,  raised 
towards  the  Word  is  full  of  light;  his  lips  part,  desiring 
but  not  daring  to  speak.  Gratitude  and  admiration  give  an 
expression  to  the  face  in  which  we  are  forced  to  recognize 
something  more  beautiful  than  nature  and  more  truthful 
than  truth  itself.  The  costume  is  extremely  simple.  It  is 
merely  composed  of  a  short  tunic  of  a  bright  yellow  tint, 
the  sleeves  of  which  cover  the  arms  to  the  wrists.  The 
legs  are  bare  from  the  knees  down ;  the  feet  are  covered 
with  sandals  tied  to  green  leggings.  The  left  knee  rests 
upon  the  ground  and  the  right  leg  bends  without  yet  kneel- 
ing.    .\t    the  same  time  the  left   hand   is  given  up  to  the 


144  THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  FISH 

hand  of  the  archangel  and  reaches  towards  the  Infant  Jesus, 
while  the  right  hand  holds  a  string  by  which  hangs  the 
symbolic  fish.  Raphael  put  his  whole  heart  into  this  de- 
lightful figure.  It  was  impossible  to  borrow  less  from  ac- 
cessories :  the  whole  charm  arises  from  the  purity  of  the 
lines,  the  truth  of  the  action  and  gesture,  and  the  agree- 
ment between  the  forms  and  the  internal  sentiment.  Noth- 
ing can  be  more  modest  and  less  equivocal  in  intent  than 
this  youth  trembling  with  happiness  and  ecstasy  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Virgin  and  the  Son  of  God.  Raphael,  always 
so  clean  cut  in  his  expression,  has  never  been  more  clear  or 
precise ;  he  has  never  painted  those  timorous  souls,  of 
which  Dante  speaks,  that  Heaven  and  Hell  alike  reject,  and 
he  has  never  reached  his  goal  with  more  decision  than  in 
this  picture.  The  youthful  Tobit  is  truly  "  a  citizen  of  the 
Holy  City,"  veramente  del  Paradiso ;  before  him  we  feel 
penetrated  with  the  religion  that  has  made  Hope  a  virtue. 

The  angel  possesses  a  still  grander  beauty.  Seen  also 
in  right  profile,  with  body  bending  forwards  above  Tobit, 
and  head  stretched  towards  the  Virgin,  he  keeps  behind  the 
youthful  prophet  whom  with  his  left  hand  he  presents  to 
the  Saviour,  pushing  him  forward  with  his  right  hand 
towards  the  divine  group.  The  gaze,  the  mouth  and  all 
the  features  of  this  face  burn  with  the  saintliest  ardour,  and 
are  almost  adorable  in  their  adoration.  The  flesh  glows 
with  a  lively  and  almost  Venetian  colouring.  The  hair  of 
a  somewhat  dark  blonde  falls  away  leaving  bare  the  temples, 
ear  and  cheek,  at  the  same  time  rising  so  as  to  form  a  sort 
of  flame  at  the  top  of  the  brow.     We  are  reminded  of  the  (M 


THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  FISH  145 

faces  of  the  Genii  created  by  Classic  art,  and  the  very  taste 
of  profane  antiquity,  becoming  Christian,  seems  to  revive  in 
this  celestial  messenger.  The  neck,  and  top  of  the  shoulder, 
left  bare  by  the  vestment,  are  admirably  modelled.  The 
robe,  the  sleeves  of  which  reach  the  wrist,  is  yellow,  but 
of  a  deeper  tint  than  that  of  Tobit ;  over  it  is  a  red  tunic, 
that  covers  the  shoulders  and  lower  part  of  the  figure. 
Great  grey  wings  toning  into  pale  blue  rise  behind  the 
head  and  pass  out  of  the  frame.  Such  an  angel  as  this 
seems  to  have  descended  from  Heaven  and  yet  is  held  to 
earth  by  the  most  material  beauty.  The  face  is  so  serene, 
it  possesses  such  divine  ardour  and  such  real  fervour,  and 
seems  to  be  almost  intoxicated  with  divine  love.  Thus 
Raphael  translates  with  sovereign  perfection  the  visions 
that  had  visited  him  from  his  infancy.  Here  we  have  one 
of  those  sexless  beings,  or  rather  proceeding  from  both 
sexes,  possessing  the  strength  of  the  one  and  the  grace  and 
charm  of  the  other,  pure  reflections  of  eternal  beauty, 
created  by  the  religious  sentiment  to  show  us  in  our  own 
image  the  very  image  of  God.  Never  has  painting  pro- 
duced such  a  beautiful  angel  as  the  archangel  Raphael 
in  the  Virgin  of  the  Fish.  In  this  there  is  a  sort  of  exalta- 
tion of  genius,  something  that  elevates  the  soul  above  the 
earth  and  carries  it  even  into  the  depths  of  Divinity. 
All  the  influences  united  that  made  Raphael  arc 
clearly  visible  in  the  Virgin  of  the  Fish.  In  particular, 
consider  the  archangel  Raphael  and  the  young  Tobit :  no- 
where has  Nature  been  more  scrupulously  studied  ;  nowhere 
also  has  this  study  been   nunc  discreetly  hidden  under  the 


146  THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  FISH 

Christian  idea ;  and,  finally,  nowhere  can  we  better  com- 
prehend that  Classic  learning  that  has  taught  Raphael  to 
make  everything  simplification  and  abstraction  in  view  of 
the  principal  idea. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Madonna,  St.  Jerome  worthily 
completes  the  picture ;  and  his  strong  figure  suffices  to 
counterbalance  the  delicate  ones  of  Tobit  and  the  angel. 
Robed  in  purple  and  kneeling  on  the  platform  of  the  Vir- 
gin's throne,  he  holds  in  both  hands  the  version  of  the 
Vulgate  and  concentrates  his  whole  mind  upon  the  book 
that  the  Infant  Jesus  himself  adopts  and  consecrates.  His 
robust  and  broadly  constructed  head  preserves  only  a  few 
white  hairs  which  wave  above  his  brow  and  on  his  temples 
where  they  join  a  long  beard,  equally  white,  which  covers 
his  cheeks,  lips  and  chin  ;  and  falls  to  the  middle  of  his 
breast.  His  brow  is  contracted  and  reflective,  but  without 
any  effort  or  anxiety^  His  attentive  gaze  is  concentrated 
exclusively  upon  the  Scriptures :  although  almost  lost  in 
the  beard  his  mouth  is  expressive  and  speaking;  and  all 
his  features  are  regular  and  handsome,  gentle  and  kind  in 
their  strong  accentuation.  The  saint  is  in  full  possession 
of  the  Truth :  he  penetrates  it  and  is  himself  illuminated 
by  it.  The  colouring  of  his  face  is  animated,  charming 
and  as  far  removed  from  weakness  as  from  harshness,  re- 
flecting without  any  exaggeration  something  of  the  warm 
purple  glow.  Look  at  the  beautiful  values  exchanged  by 
the  colour  of  the  head  and  that  of  the  vesture !  What 
light,  what  relief,  what  a  lovely  diaphanous  shadow  is  cast 
by  the  book  on  the  left  hand  the  fingers  of  which  are  in 


THE  VIRGIN   OF  THE  FISH  147 

the  leaves !  This  St.  Jerome  has  lived,  but  he  has  tri- 
umphed over  life  j  he  has  suffered  but  "  he  who  has  not 
suffered,  what  does  he  know  ?  "  He  has  entered  alive  into 
eternal  rest,  carrying  his  robust  old  age  with  dignity  ;  and 
of  earthly  passions  he  only  retains  what  is  necessary  for 
genius  to  testify  of  its  empire.  Never  had  so  grand  an 
imatT^e  of  this  holy  person  yet  been  seen,  and  since  Raphael 
An  has  made  vain  attempts  to  rise  as  high. 

A  great  green  curtain,  raised  diagonally  from  the  right, 
forms  a  background  on  which  the  Virgin  and  the  Infant 
Jesus,  the  angel  Raphael  and  Tobit  stand  out.  This  broad 
and  sober  note  is  broken  only  on  the  right  by  a  patch  of 
sky  on  which  the  admirable  face  of  St.  Jerome  glows  with 
greater  brilliance.  This  corner  of  the  firmament,  intensely 
blue  at  the  zenith,  gradually  pales  down  towards  the  hori- 
zon. In  the  distance  are  outlined  vague  silhouettes  of 
mountains  drowned  in  the  blue.  St.  Jerome,  placed 
directly  under  the  light  that  falls  from  the  sky  is  the  most 
brilliantly  illuminated  by  it.  As  for  the  other  figures,  the 
light  only  strikes  them  subdued  by  the  interposition  of  the 
curtain.  However,  the  Infant  Jesus  is  also  almost  entirely 
enveloped  by  the  outside  air.  The  difference  of  light  is 
slightly  noticeable  in  passing  from  the  Infant  to  the  Virgin  ; 
but  it  becomes  sensibly  so  in  passing  to  the  youthful  Tobit, 
and  still  more  so  with  the  archangel  Raphael.  Then  the 
shadows  deepen  gradually,  but  without  thickening  or  assum- 
ing any  obscurity  or  blackness  anywhere,  and  without  any 
darkness  shrouding  any  point,  but  on  the  contrary  preserv- 
ing a  transparence  and   limpidity   through  which  even  the 


148  THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  FISH 

most  sombre  parts  look  flooded  with  light.  Nothing  can 
be  more  harmonious  than  the  disposition  of  the  colours  in 
this  picture.  The  colouring  of  the  heads  is  fresh,  dazzling, 
and  entirely  appropriate  to  the  age,  character  and  condition 
of  each.  The  draperies,  always  of  simple  shades,  preserve 
a  perfect  equilibrium  of  tonality  with  the  flesh-tints,  and 
form  oppositions  among  themselves  of  equal  softness  and 
sonority.  The  blue  mantle  and  white  veil  of  the  Virgin, 
the  two  neighbouring  yellows  of  the  robes  of  Tobit  and  the 
angel,  the  strong  red  of  St.  Jerome's  vesture  and  the  no  less 
vivid  blue  of  the  sky, — all  these  different  notes,  which  seem 
exclusive  on  account  of  frankness  and  brilliance,  vibrate 
with  intensity  and  especially  in  harmony,  melt  into  and 
join  one  another  without  any  violence,  and  over  these 
modulations  the  green  curtain  is  thrown  like  a  deep  holding- 
note  which  serves  as  a  bond  for  all  these  parts  of  the  same 
chant.  In  certain  aspects  of  colour,  this  picture  recalls  the 
Foligno  Madonna.  When  we  look  at  it,  however,  we  think 
neither  of  Giorgione,  nor  of  Sebastiani  of  Venice,  nor  of 
anybody  whatsoever  outside  Raphael.  Raphael  is  there 
himself,  alone  and  entire.  Others  have  had  a  more  glaring 
palette,  but  nobody  has  had  more  harmony,  tranquillity  and 
dignity  in  his  colour.  His  brush,  broad,  spontaneous  and 
full  of  decision,  is  accustomed  to  the  uses  of  great  painting  ; 
his  hand  has  been  familiarized  with  the  simple  and  rapid 
operations  of  fresco ;  and,  in  the  execution  of  the  Virgin  of 
the  Fish^  we  recognize  the  painter  of  the  Bohena  Mass.  Even 
from  the  standpoint  of  colour,  such  a  picture  as  this  can 
compare  advantageously  with  the  most  beautiful  productions 


THE   VIRGIN   OF  THE   FISH  I49 

of  the  genius  of  the  exclusively  colourist  schools.  But 
however  lovely  the  colour  may  be,  here  it  is  always  only  an 
accessory  ;  it  makes  part  of  the  form,  it  is  inherent  in  the 
idea,  and  it  is  this  idea  that  is  truly  marvellous  in  its  sim- 
plicity. In  his  strong  virility,  Raphael  had  lost  none  of 
the  native  and  enchanting  qualities  of  his  earliest  youth. 
In  his  most  masterly  works  of  the  Roman  period,  we  still 
find  the  Umbrian  painter  of  the  Knight's  Dream.  Under 
the  loveliest  forms,  his  soul  here  burns  with  more  intensity 
than  ever.  The  time  of  mysticism  had  passed  away,  and 
the  internal  feeling  had  never  appeared  stronger  nor  more 
eloquent.  The  Christian  idea,  in  associating  itself  with 
the  beautiful,  does  not  abdicate,  it  becomes  transformed  ; 
the  great  mystery,  while  investing  itself  with  more  har- 
monious colours  and  better  adapted  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
eyes,  loses  nothing  of  its  religious  and  profound  meaning. 
Raphael  proves  this  by  admirable  evidence  in  the  Virgin  of 
the  Fish, 


MRS.  SIDDONS 

{Gainsborough)  ^"^ 

HENRY    JOUIN 

ADRIENNE  LECOUVREUR,  Clarion  and  Rachel! 
These  three  names,  which  with  us  recall  the 
"Tragic  Muse"  in  her  most  brilliant  manifestations,  unite, 
with  our  neighbours  across  the  English  Channel,  into  the 
one  name  of  Mrs.  Siddons.  This  marvellously  gifted  artist 
has  no  rival  in  the  history  of  the  English  theatre.  For 
over  a  century,  she  has  been  the  highest  incarnation  and 
the  most  powerful  personification  of  the  tragedienne  s  art. 
Her  father  was  Roger  Kemble.  She  was  born  on  July 
14th,  1755,  at  Brecon  in  Wales.  Roger  Kemble  was 
managing  a  troupe  of  strolling  players  there.  She  immedi- 
ately received  the  name  of  Sarah.  Eleven  children  were 
born  after  her ;  and  two  of  her  brothers  made  the  name  of 
Kemble  illustrious.  The  first  was  John  Philip,  both  actor 
and  author,  born  in  Prescot,  in  1757,  who  studied  at  Douai 
and  whose  successes  as  a  tragedian  continued  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  His  favorite  roles  were  Hamlet,  Macbeth 
and  Othello.  As  a  dramatic  author,  he  produced  nothing 
but  burlesques.  John  Philip,  dying  at  Lausanne,  in  1823, 
received  the  signal  tribute  of  a  statue  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  Charles  Kemble,  much  younger,  became  cele- 
brated as  a  comedian.     He  first  saw  the  light  in  1775,  at 


MIC*       --llipONS. 


OALKKIloUol-OII. 


MRS.   SIDDONS  I5I 

Brecon,  where  his  father  was  again  established,  having 
taken  the  management  of  a  theatre.  Following  the 
example  of  his  brother  John,  he  grew  up  at  the  college  of 
Douai,  made  his  debut  at  Drury  Lane  in  1794,  and  then 
took  the  management  of  the  Covent-Garden  theatre,  the 
administration  of  which  he  kept  until  1826. 

The  marriage  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  which  occurred  in  No- 
vember, 1773,  at  Coventry,  to  a  young  actor  in  her  father's 
troupe,  was  not  antagonistic  to  the  dramatic  vocation  of 
her  brothers,  John  Philip  and  Charles.  Roger  Kemble, 
the  father,  had  tried  to  divert  his  daughter  from  the  theatre, 
and,  towards  accomplishing  this  purpose,  he  had  placed  her, 
at  the  age  of  fifteen,  as  lady's  maid  to  a  wealthy  family  of 
Warwickshire.  But  it  was  too  late.  It  was  not  with  im- 
punity that  Roger  Kemble  had  confided  to  his  daughter 
from  her  earliest  childhood  roles  of  all  kinds  upon  the  strolling 
stage  that  he  managed.  This  was  a  grave  imprudence,  or, 
perhaps,  an  unconscious  complicity  towards  an  irresistible 
vocation.  Siddons  and  Sarah  Kemble  were  worthy  of  each 
other.  Both  knew  how  to  conquer  the  esteem  and  the  re- 
spect of  their  contemporaries  by  the  regularity  of  their 
lives,  no  less  than  by  their  talents.  When  just  married, 
Mrs.  Siddons  played  in  many  provincial  theatres  and  rapidly 
acquired  her  great  reputation.  Garrick,  having  heard  of 
her,  made  a  contract  with  her  for  an  engagement  at  Drury 
Lane,  of  which  he  was  manager.  She  played  in  company 
with  the  great  tragedian  ;  but,  not  being  able  to  overcome 
her  timiditv,  she  was  mediocre.  A  few  years  of  retreat 
and  patient  study  enabled  her  to  triumph  over  her  nerves. 


152  MRS.  SIDDONS 

She  made  successive  essays  at  the  theatres  of  Manchester, 
York  and  Bath.  And  when  she  reappeared,  in  1782,  upon 
the  Covent  Garden  stage,  after  the  death  of  Garrick,  the 
perfection  of  her  playing  gave  her  authority  and  success 
which  never  deserted  her  up  to  18 18.  The  roles  in  which 
she  was  illustrious  are  numberless.  Juliet,  Ophelia,  Portia 
in  The  Merchant  of  Venice^  Marguerite  d'Anjou  in  Edward 
IV.-i  Constance  in  King  John^  and,  beyond  all  else.  Lady 
Macbeth  should  be  recalled.  Mrs.  Siddons,  much  enam- 
oured of  her  art,  studied  all  the  sources  and  weighed  all 
the  problems.  She  left  some  written  notes  upon  the  role  of 
Lady  Macbeth  which  are  witnesses  of  her  reflection  and 
her  high  intelligence.  She  was  a  tragedienne  by  vocation, 
but  there  is  every  reason  to  take  into  consideration,  in  re- 
gard to  her  success,  the  persistent  work  that  she  imposed 
upon  herself,  so  that  she  could  penetrate  into  the  genius  of 
the  poets  that  she  interpreted. 

What  of  this  ?  Of  what  avail  is  it  to  name  triumphs  and 
enumerate  victories  ?  In  truth,  statistics  are  very  dry,  and 
I  beg  Mrs.  Siddons's  pardon.  We  can  do  better  by  seizing 
from  the  pens  of  her  contemporaries  some  words  that  will 
give  a  just  idea  of  the  enchantments  and  terrors  with  which 
the  great  tragedienne  carved  out  her  brilliant  path.  Lord 
Byron  thus  defined  Mrs.  Siddons  in  the  role  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth: "It  was  something  transcending  nature;  one  would 
say  that  a  being  of  a  superior  order  had  descended  from  a 
high  sphere  to  inspire  fear  and  admiration  at  the  same 
time."  One  day  some  one  insisted  that  Byron  should  go 
to  see  Miss  O'Neil,  a  celebrated  actress  in  the  role  of  Lady 


MRS.  SIDDONS  153 

Macbeth  :  "  I  have  seen  Siddons ;  any  other  spectacle 
would  only  harm  my  ideal."  Doctor  Samuel  Johnson,  the 
arbiter,  or  rather  the  tyrant  of  British  opinion  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  was  profoundly  misanthropic.  The  name  of 
Siddons  ceaselessly  repeated  in  the  London  salons  wounded 
the  ears  of  the  redoubtable  doctor,  vet  notwithstanding,  he 
rendered  this  tribute  to  the  tragedieyine :  *'  Neither  eulogy 
nor  fortune,  which,  ordinarily  are  a  double  danger  for  hu- 
manity, have  captured  this  superior  person."  Miss  Burney 
thus  expresses  herself:  "  Hers  is  an  excellent  nature;  she 
is  always  self-possessed.  She  is  calm  and  modest.  Her 
attitude  is  serious  and  grave  without  affectation ;  a  certain 
coldness,  exempt  from  arrogance,  distinguishes  her  person." 
Mrs.  Thrale,  a  woman  of  knowledge,  knowing  many 
languages,  whom  Johnson,  when  he  was  seventy  years  of 
age,  wanted  to  marry,  alludes  to  that  coldness  of  which 
Miss  Burney  speaks.  "Siddons,"  she  writes,  "  is  at  cer- 
tain times,  a  leaden  statue  ;  but  what  does  it  matter,  we  have 
made  her  our  idol,  and  she  appears  to  us  like  a  statue  of 
gold."  The  tragedienne  had  occasion  one  day  to  visit  the 
dwelling  of  Johnson  whom  Chesterfield  qualified  as  a 
Hottentot  and  whom  M.  Valbert  called  "  a  crude  giant  and 
a  rude  elephant."  Coming  under  the  roof  of  the  publicist, 
she  looked  around  for  a  chair  upon  which  she  might  sit 
down.  He  had  none  in  the  place,  and  Johnson  perceived 
the  poverty  of  his  furniture.  The  rude  pachyderm,  sud- 
denly rendered  tame,  found  this  admirable  speech  for  his 
visitor:  "You  sec,  Madame,  whenever  you  appear  scats 
are    lacking;"   Mme.   dc   Stacl   saluted   her   as   "the  most 


154  MRS.   SIDDONS 

noble  of  all  actresses  in  her  manners."  "  Mme.  Siddons," 
she  added,  "  has  the  secret  of  prostrating  herself  to  the 
earth  without  losing  her  dignity." 

What  else  do  I  know  ?  It  was  Walpole  who  wrote : 
"  Mistress  Siddons  is  always  the  fashion  and,  what  is  rare, 
she  is  always  modest  and  sensible.  She  declines  all  invita- 
tions to  the  London  salons  on  the  pretext  that  she  gives  all 
her  time  to  study  and  to  the  education  of  her  son."  This 
son  was  Henry  Siddons.  He  himself  became  an  actor, 
theatrical  manager  and  author.  He  was  twenty-six  when 
he  played  the  role  of  Hamlet.  And  his  mother  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Inchbald :  "  How  sweet  it  is  to  me  to  see  the  talent 
of  my  dear  Henry  appreciated  !  I  believe  his  talent  is  real 
and  indeed  very  remarkable.  But  it  all  seems  a  dream  to 
me.  I  am  trembling  and  impatient  to  learn  the  effect  of 
his  Hamlet.  It  is  almost  a  mad  undertaking  for  such  a 
youth  to  appear  in  a  role  played  for  so  long  and  in  so  per- 
fect a  style  by  his  Uncle  John.  Let  us  pray  God  that  he 
will  succeed.     Adieu,  dear  Muse  !  " 

Mistress  Siddons  was  the  object  of  requests  from  the 
painters  of  her  day.  Reynolds  has  left  a  celebrated  por- 
trait of  this  great  actress  known  under  the  name  of  the 
Tragic  Muse.  Mistress  Thrale  tells  us  that  Siddons  her- 
self chose  the  pose  that  Reynolds  preserved  in  his  composi- 
tion. The  tragedienne  is  sitting  in  an  antique  chair,  the 
head  erect  and  lightly  turned  towards  the  shoulder,  as  if 
listening  to  a  discourse  that  an  invisible  interlocutor  is 
pronouncing.  Her  foot  rests  upon  a  stool  and  she  appears 
as  if  in  the  clouds.     It  is  an  apotheosis  rather  than  a  por- 


MRS.    SIDDONS  I55 

trait.  "I  will  not  lose  the  opportunity,"  said  Reynolds, 
"  to  transmit  my  name  to  posterity  by  not  inscribing  it 
upon  the  fringe  of  your  robe."  And  he  actually  did  this. 
You  can  read  the  painter's  signature  and  the  date  1783 
upon  the  gold  border  of  the  drapery  that  covers  the  knees 
of  the  Tragic  Aluse.  The  original  work  is  in  Grosvenor 
Gallery.  A  copy  by  Reynolds,  signed  and  dated  1789,  is 
in  Dulwich  College.  Romney  and  Lawrence  also  painted 
the  portrait  of  Mistress  Siddons.  But  their  canvases 
did  not  have  the  success  of  Reynolds's.  However,  ac- 
cording to  the  opinion  of  Leslie  and  Tom  Taylor,  biogra- 
phers of  the  painter  of  the  Tragic  Muse,  Reynolds  was 
outdistanced  by  Gainsborough  in  the  interpretation  of  Mrs. 
Siddons's  features.  With  the  former,  the  model  and  the 
pose  are  apparent ;  with  the  second,  nature  is  not  on  her 
guard,  and  allows  herself  to  be  surprised.  Mrs.  Siddons 
was  twenty-nine  when  Gainsborough  obtained  permission 
to  paint  her  portrait.  It  was  in  1784.  She  is  in  street 
costume,  sitting,  at  half-length,  and  seen  nearly  in  profile; 
a  dress  of  blue  and  white  stripes,  a  shawl  with  golden  re- 
flections envelops  the  slender  body  of  this  young  woman  ; 
and  a  black  hat,  surmounted  with  a  feather  of  the  same 
colour,  is  placed  on  the  head  and  brings  out  the  dead  white- 
ness of  the  face;  the  eye,  with  its  penetrating  expression, 
looks  into  space  and  seems  disdainful  of  the  spectator's 
admiration.  The  resolution,  the  character  ami  also  the 
great  tranquillity  of  the  soul,  and  a  self-possession  that 
nothing  can  disturb  distinguishes  this  severe  and  quiet 
image.     Visitors    to    the    National    Gallery    remain    spell- 


156  MRS.   SIDDONS 

bound  by  the  facility  that  the  painter  has  shown  in  this 
picture.  It  does  not  seem  as  if  Gainsborough  paid  the 
slightest  heed  to  his  method  in  acquitting  himself  of  this 
task.  He  took  however,  serious  care  to  render  with  a 
rigorous  truthfulness  the  accentuated  features  of  his  model. 
The  head  of  Mrs.  Siddons  had  its  peculiarities.  A  speech 
of  the  painter  proves  this.  One  day  after  he  had  worked 
for  a  long  while  without  saying  a  word :  ''  Damn  your  nose, 
madame,"  he  cried  suddenly,  "  there  is  no  end  to  it :  it  is 
one  of  the  characteristic  features  of  your  face.  The  mouth 
is  also  very  peculiar."  "  You  mean  to  say  the  jawbone," 
replied  Mrs.  Siddons,  laughing ;  "  I  have  the  Kemble  jaw- 
bone; it  is  not  less  celebrated  than  that  of  Samson." 
This  dialogue  shows  us  the  wit  that  the  tragedienne  en- 
joyed. Whatever  opinion  she  had  of  her  face,  it  is  not  to 
be  despised.  Gainsborough  has,  moreover,  perpetuated  it  at 
a  propitious  moment.  In  reality,  during  the  period  of  her 
youth,  the  tragic  mask  of  the  actress,  too  prematurely  ac- 
cented, was  not  without  harshness.  Towards  the  approach 
of  her  thirtieth  year,  all  inequalities  and  all  violence  had 
disappeared,  and  it  was  really  in  the  hour  of  her  full  beauty 
that  Reynolds  and  his  rival  fixed  upon  their  canvases  the 
radiant  image  of  the  tragedienne  and  the  woman. 


wr 


XA 


THE  NATIVITY 

{Botticelli) 

COSMO  MONKHOUSE 


-^- 


OF  all  the  artistb  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  there  was 
no  one  who  more  fully  exercised  his  ^imaginative 
faculty  than  Sandro  Filipepi,  generally  called  Botticelli,  and 
no  one  who  more  fully  represents  the  spirit  of  the  Renais- 
sance. He  was  a  great  church  painter,  infusing  his  own 
strong  and  abundant  life  into  the  oft-repeated  themes  of 
ecclesiastical  art.  Like  his  master,  Lippi,  he  conceived 
them  over  again,  but  in  a  still  more  romantic  spirit,  and 
with  a  vigour  and  energy  unknown  before.  But  his  imagi- 
nation was  also  captured  by  the  poetic  legends  of  the 
ancient  pagan  world,  and  by  the  romantic  inventions  of  his 
own  countrymen.  If  not  the  first  to  choose  subjects  from 
the  poets  of  Greece  and  Rome,  he  was  the  first  to  illustrate 
a  modern  one.  His  designs  to  the  Divina  Commedia  (once 
in  the  possession  of  Lord  Ashburnham,  but  now  in  the 
museum  of  Berlin)  show  how  thoroughly  he  was  affected 
bv  the  spirit  of  Dante.  Some  of  the  most  original  motives 
in  his  great  altar-pieces  can  be  traced  to  the  influence  of 
the  great  poem  on  his  imagination,  and  he  not  only  illus- 
trated but  annotated  it.  He  painted  pictures  also  from  the 
tales  of  Boccaccio. 


158  THE  NATIVITY 

The  pictures  by  Botticelli  in  the  National  Gallery  illus- 
trate many  sides  of  his  genius,  if  they  do  not  show  its  full 
range.  The  largest,  the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin  (No. 
II 26),  is  original  and  grand  in  its  conception,  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  sky  being  filled  with  great  zones  of  the  angelic 
hierarchy  and  all  the  company  of  heaven,  while  below,  and 
behind  the  figures  of  the  Apostles  who  stand  round  the 
Virgin's  tomb,  we  see  the  valley  of  the  Arno,  with  the  city 
of  Florence  and  another  town.  The  wonderful  energy  of 
the  angels  and  the  boldness  of  the  design  attest  the  inven- 
tion of  Botticelli,  and  its  history  from  the  date  it  left  that 
artist's  hottega  is  complete ;  but  it  is  thought  by  some  to 
have  been  executed  by  his  pupils,  and  in  any  case  it  is  too 
much  damaged  to  be,  in  its  present  state,  a  satisfactory  ex- 
ample of  his  skill.  This  picture  is  supposed  to  have  been 
painted  about  1472,  or  when  the  painter  was  about  twentv- 
six,  and  is  therefore  a  striking  witness  of  the  reputation  he 
acquired  at  an  early  age,  especially  if  his  position  was  so 
secure  that  he  could  afford  to  leave  the  execution  of  so  im- 
portant a  work  in  the  hands  of  his  pupils. 

As  Matteo  Palmieri,  who  had  written  a  poem  somewhat 
in  the  manner  of  Dante,  was  a  friend  of  Botticelli,  it  does 
not  appear  probable  that  the  artist  would  have  spared  any 
personal  pains  in  the  execution  of  this  picture ;  but  how- 
ever that  may  be,  it  is  satisfactory  to  feel  assured  that  no 
kind  of  doubt  exists  as  to  the  hand  which  executed  the 
smaller  but  more  interesting  and  beautiful  work  which 
hangs  near  it  to  the  left,  on  the  east  wall.^  This  picture 
^  It  has  now  been  removed  to  Room  I. 


fvF^,>^  -"v^im 


1 


1  1 1 1 .     S  A  I  1  \  I  I  >  . 


THE  NATIVITY  159 

The  Nativity  (No.  1034),  is  "  signed  all  over."  From  the 
inscription  upon  it,  it  appears  to  have  been  painted  in  the 
year  1500,  or  nearly  thirty  years  after  The  Assumption  ;  and 
though  Botticelli  lived  till  15 10,  there  is  no  work  from  his 
hand  to  which  a  later  date  has  been  assigned.  In  this 
picture  we  see  that  intensity-  of  feeling,  which  is  the  pecul- 
iar characteristic  of  Botticelli,  strained  to  its  highest  pitch. 
It  does  not  need  the  inscription  upon  it  to  tell  us  that  it 
was  produced  under  great  excitement.  The  fervour  of  the 
still  Madonna,  as  she  kneels  before  the  Child  ;  the  extra- 
ordinar)'  nervous  tension  which  the  artist  has  managed  to 
suggest  in  the  seated  figure  of  Joseph  ;  the  rapture  of  the 
angels  below  at  meeting  their  redeemed  friends ;  the  ardour 
of  the  angels  at  the  sides,  who  introduce  the  awcstricken 
shepherds  and  kings ;  and,  finally,  the  wild  ecstasy  of  the 
angels  above  as  they  dance  around  the  throne,  present  such 
a  picture  of  highly  wrought  emotion  as  even  Botticelli  him- 
self has  never  equalled.  Between  the  execution  of  the  two 
pictures  he  had  lived  his  life,  a  life  of  which  we  know 
little,  except  what  we  can  learn  from  his  works  ;  but  that 
is  sufficient  evidence  that  he  had  felt  and  probably  suffered 
more  than  most  men.  His  youth,  we  know,  was  one  of 
remarkable  success.  After  the  death  of  his  master,  Lippi, 
he  was  reckoned,  according  to  Vasari,  the  best  painter  in 
Florence.  A  few  years  after  he  painted  The  Assumption 
(the  date  assigned  is  148 1),  he  was  summoned  to  Rome  by 
Sixtus  IV.,  to  take  part  in  the  decoration  of  the  famous 
chapel  which  the  i^)pe  had  built  in  1473.  Here  his  asso- 
ciates   were    the    most   celebrated    artists   of    Florence   and 


l60  THE  NATIVITY 

Umbria — Signorelli,  Perugino,  Cosmo  Rosselli,  and  Ghir- 
landajo,  and  it  is  said  that  Sandro  was  appointed  to  super- 
intend the  whole  of  the  decorative  works.  His  frescoes 
there  of  the  History  of  Moses ^  the  Temptation^  and  the 
Destruction  of  Korah^  are  full  of  his  fiery  spirit  and  deserve 
to  be  more  generally  known  and  studied  than  they  are. 
They  are  of  much  interest  in  connection  with  the  two 
pictures  with  which  we  are  at  present  concerned,  as  they 
are  about  equi-distant  in  date  between  them,  and  combine 
much  of  the  exaggerated  gesture  of  the  latter,  with  groups 
as  calm  and  dignified  as  the  Apostles  in  The  Assumption. 
From  the  inscription  on  The  Nativity  it  would  appear  that 
the  painter  was  suffering  from  strong  religious  excitement. 
It  was  painted  under  the  conviction  that  the  devil  was  then 
let  loose  for  three  years  and  a  half,  as  foretold  in  the  Reve- 
lation of  S.  John,  and  in  glorious  expectation  of  the  time 
when  he  should  again  be  chained  and  trodden  down.  As 
Botticelli  was  one  of  the  most  fervent  followers  of  Savon- 
arola, and  the  picture  was  painted  but  two  years  after  the 
burning  of  the  Dominican  and  the  downfall  of  that  short- 
lived "  Kingdom  of  Christ,"  which  he  endeavoured  to 
establish  in  Florence,  it  is  only  reasonable  to  conclude  that 
this  vision  of  the  triumph  of  the  Redeemer  was  the  flash  of 
an  imagination  still  inflamed  with  the  fierce  enthusiasm  of 
those  unforgotten  days ;  a  reaction  from  a  terrible  disap- 
pointment;  a  prophecy  of  the  near  fulfilment  of  his  hopes. 
It  is  also  probable  that  such  a  man,  convinced  by  the  teach- 
ing of  the  monk,  that  all  his  pictures,  or  at  least  all  those 
inspired   by   pagan   feeling,   like   the   Mars  and  Venus^  in 


THE  NATIVITY  l6l 

Room  I.,  were  worthy  only  of  the  flames,  should,  as  Vasari 
tells  us,  have  renounced  painting  and  fallen  into  distress. 
In  no  way  opposed  to  this  thcor)'  that  Botticelli  should 
have  painted  this  particular  picture,  nor  even  that  he  should 
have  served,  in  1503,  on  a  committee  appointed  to  select  a 
site  for  Michael  Angelo's  statue  of  David.  There  appears 
to  be  no  doubt  of  the  poverty  of  his  later  years,  nor  of  the 
support  which  he  received  from  his  old  patrons  the  Medici, 
and  other  friends,  until  his  death  in  15 10. 


i^ 


^/ 


r  ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

(  Carpaccio) 


JAMES  REDDIE  ANDERSON 

THE  first  picture  on  the  left  hand  as  we  enter  the 
chapel  shows  St.  George  on  horseback,  in  battle  with 
the  Dragon.  Other  artists,  even  Tintoret  ^  are  of  opinion 
that  the  Saint  rode  a  white  horse.  The  champion  of  Purity 
must,  they  hold,  have  been  carried  to  victory  by  a  charger 
ethereal  and  splendid  as  a  summer  cloud.  Carpaccio  be- 
lieved that  his  horse  was  a  dark  brown.  He  knew  that  this 
colour  is  generally  the  mark  of  greatest  strength  and  en- 
durance; he  had  no  wish  to  paint  here  an  ascetic's  victory 
over  the  flesh.  St.  George's  warring  is  in  the  world,  and 
for  it ;  he  is  the  enemy  of  its  desolation,  the  guardian  of 
its  peace;  and  all  vital  force  of  the  lower  Nature  he  shall 
have  to  bear  him  into  battle  ;  submissive  indeed  to  the  spur, 
bitted  and  bridled  for  obedience,  yet  honourably  decked 
with  trappings  whose  studs  and  bosses  are  fair  carven  faces. 
But  though  of  colour  prosaically  useful,  this  horse  has  a 
deeper  kinship  with  the  air.  Many  of  the  ancient  histories 
and  vase-paintings  tell  us  that  Perseus,  when  he  saved 
Andromeda,  was  mounted  on  Pegasus.  Look  now  here  at 
the  mane  and  tail,  swept  still  back  upon  the  wind,  though 

'  In  the  anti-chapel  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        163 

already  the  passionate  onset  has  been  brought  to  sudden 
pause  in  that  crash  of  encounter.  Though  the  flash  of  an 
earthly  fire  be  in  his  eye,  its  force  in  his  limbs — though  the 
clothing  of  his  neck  be  Chthonian  thunder — this  steed  is 
brother,  too,  to  that  one,  born  by  farthest  ocean  wells, 
whose  wild  mane  and  sweeping  wings  stretch  through  the 
firmament  as  light  is  breaking  over  earth.  More;  these 
masses  of  billowy  hair  tossed  upon  the  breeze  of  heaven 
are  set  here  for  a  sign  that  this,  though  but  one  of  the 
beasts  that  perish,  has  the  roots  of  his  strong  nature  in  the 
power  of  heavenly  life,  and  is  now  about  His  business  who 
is  Lord  of  heaven  and  Father  of  men.  The  horse  is  thus, 
as  we  shall  see,  opposed  to  certain  other  signs,  meant  for 
our  learning,  in  the  dream  of  horror  round  this  monster's 
den.' 

St.  George,  armed  to  his  throat,  sits  firmly  in  the  saddle. 
All  the  skill  gained  in  a  chivalric  youth,  all  the  might  of  a 
soldier's  manhood,  he  summons  for  this  strange  tourney, 
stooping  slightly  and  gathering  his  strength  as  he  drives  the 
spear-point  straight  between  his  enemy's  jaws.  His  face  is 
very  fair,  at  once  delicate  and  powerful,  well-bred  in  the 
fullest  bearing  of  the  words  ;  a  Plantagenet  face  in  general 
type,  but  much  refined.  The  lower  lip  is  pressed  upwards, 
the  brow  knit,  in  anger  and  disgust  partly,  but  more  in  care 
— and  care  not  so  much  concerning  the  flight's  ending,  as 


'  TJiis  cloudlike  effect  is  through  surface  rubbinp  perhaps  more  marked 
now  than  rarpaccio  infrn'ied,  hut  mu<.t  always  liavc  hren  most  notireable. 
It  produces  a  very  slrikiiijj  reicinlilaiice  to  tlic  Tc^jasus  or  the  Ram  of 
Phrixxu  on  Greek  vase*. 


164        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

that  this  thrust  in  it  shall  now  be  rightly  dealt.  His  hair 
flows  in  bright  golden  ripples,  strong  as  those  of  a  great 
spring  whose  up-welling  waters  circle  through  some  clear 
pool,  but  it  breaks  at  last  to  float  over  brow  and  shoulders 
in  tendrils  of  living  light.^  Had  Carpaccio  been  aware  that 
St.  George  and  Perseus  are,  in  this  deed,  one ;  had  he  even 
held,  as  surely  as  Professor  Miiller  finds  reason  to  do,  that 
at  first  Perseus  was  but  the  sun  in  his  strength — for  very 
name,  being  called  "  the  Brightly-Burning  " — this  glorious 
head  could  not  have  been,  more  completely  than  it  is,  made 
the  centre  of  light  in  the  picture.  In  Greek  works  of  art, 
as  a  rule,  Perseus,  when  he  rescues  Andromeda,  continues 
to  wear  the  peaked  Phrygian  cap,  dark  helmet  of  Hades,^ 
by  whose  virtue  he  moved,  invisible,  upon  Medusa  through 
coiling  mists  of  dawn.  Only  after  victory  might  he  unveil 
his  brightness.  But  about  George  from  the  first  is  no 
shadow.  Creeping  thing  of  keenest  eye  shall  not  see  that 
splendour  which  is  so  manifest,  nor  with  guile  spring  upon 
it  unaware,  to  its  darkening.  Such  knowledge  alone  for  the 
dragon — dim  sense  as  of  a  horse  with  its  rider,  moving  to 
the  fatal  lair,  hope,  pulseless, — not  of  heart,  but  of  talon 
and  maw — that  here  is  yet  another  victim,  then  only  be- 
tween his  teeth  that  keen  lance-point,  thrust  far  before  the 
Holy  Apparition  at  whose  rising  the  Power  of  the  Vision 
of  Death  waxes  faint  and  drops  those  terrible  wings  that 
bore  under  their  shadow,  not  healing  but  wounds  for  men. 
The  spear  pierces  the  base   of  the   dragon's   brain,  its 

'  At  his  martyrdom  St.  George  was  hung  up  by  his  hair  to  be  scourged. 
*  Given  by  Hermes  (Chthonios). 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        165 

point  penetrating  right  through  and  standing  out  at  the  back 
of  the  head  just  above  its  junction  with  the  spine.  The 
shaft  breaks  in  the  shock  between  the  dragon's  jaws.  This 
shivering  of  St.  George's  spear  is  almost  always  emphasized 
in  pictures  of  him — sometimes,  as  here,  in  act,  oftener  by 
position  of  the  splintered  fragments  prominent  in  the  fore- 
ground.* This  is  no  tradition  of  ancient  art,  but  a  purely 
mediaeval  incident,  yet  not,  I  believe,  merely  the  vacant  re- 
production of  a  sight  become  familiar  to  the  spectator  of 
tournaments.  The  spear  was  type  of  the  strength  of  hu- 
man wisdom.  This  checks  the  enemy  in  his  attack,  sub- 
dues him  partly,  yet  is  shattered,  having  done  so  much,  and 
of  no  help  in  perfecting  the  victory  or  in  reaping  its  reward 
of  joy.  But  at  the  Saint's  "  loins,  girt  about  with  truth," 
there  hangs  his  holier  weapon — the  Sword  of  the  Spirit, 
which  is  the  Word  of  God. 

The  Dragon  "is  bearded  like  a  goat,' and  essentially  a 
thorny  creature.  Every  ridge  of  his  body,  wings,  and  head, 
bristles  with  long  spines,  keen,  sword-like,  of  an  earthy 
brown  colour  or  poisonous  green.  But  the  most  truculent- 
looking  of  all  is  a  short,  strong  hooked  one  at  the  back  of 
his    head,    close     to     where     the     spear-point     protrudes.* 


'  See  Raphael's  picture  facing  page  34. — E.  S. 

*  It  should  be  noticed  that  St.  George's  Dragon  is  never  liuman-headcd, 
as  often  St.  Michael's. 

*So  the  Theban  dragon  on  a  vase,  to  he  afterwards  referred  to. 

*I  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  this  here.  It  bears  a  striking  resem- 
blance to  the  crests  of  the  dragon  of  Triptolemus  on  vases.  Tliesccrcsti 
lignify  primarily  the  springing  blade  of  corn.  That,  here,  has  become 
like  iron. 


1 66        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

These  thorns  are  partly  the  same  vision — though  seen  with 
even  clearer  eyes,  dreamed  by  a  heart  yet  more  tender — as 
Spenser  saw  in  the  troop  of  urchins  coming  up  with  the 
host  of  other  lusts  against  the  Castle  of  Temperance. 
They  are  also  symbolic  as  weeds  whose  deadly  growth 
brings  the  power  of  earth  to  waste  and  chokes  its  good. 
These  our  Lord  of  spiritual  husbandmen  must  for  prelimi- 
nary task  destroy.  The  agricultural  process  consequent 
on  this  first  step  in  tillage  we  shall  see  in  the  next  picture, 
whose  subject  is  the  triumph  of  the  ploughshare  sword,  as 
the  subject  of  this  one  is  the  triumph  of  the  pruning-hook 
spear.  To  an  Italian  of  Carpaccio's  time,  further,  spines 
— etymologically  connected  in  Greek  and  Latin,  as  in 
English,  with  the  backbone — were  an  acknowledged  symbol 
of  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  whose  defect  the  artist  has  here  set 
himself  to  paint.  The  mighty  coiling  tail,  as  of  a  giant 
eel,^  carries  out  the  portraiture.  For  this,  loathsome  as  the 
body  is  full  of  horror,  takes  the  place  of  the  snails  ranked 
by  Spenser  in  line  beside  his  urchins.  Though  the  mon- 
ster, half-rampant,  rises  into  air,  turning  claw  and  spike  and 
tooth  towards  St.  George,  we  are  taught  by  this  grey  abomi- 
nation twisting  in  the  slime  of  death  that  the  threatened 
destruction  is  to  be  dreaded  not  more  for  its  horror  than  for 
its  shame. 

Behind   the  dragon  lie,  naked,  with  dead  faces  turned 
heavenwards,  two   corpses — a  youth's  and  a  girl's,  eaten 

'  The  eel  was  Venus's  selected  beast-shape  in  the  "  Flight  of  the  Gods." 
Boccaccio  has  enlarged  upon  the  significance  of  this.  Gen.  Deor.  IV.,  68. 
One  learns  from  other  sources  that  a  tail  was  often  symbol  of  sensuality. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        167 

away  from  the  feet  to  the  middle,  the  flesh  hanging  at  the 
waist  in  loathsome  rags  torn  by  the  monster's  teeth.  The 
man's  thigh  and  upper-arm  bones  snapped  across  and 
sucked  empty  of  marrow,  are  turned  to  us  for  special 
sign  of  this  destroyer's  power.  The  face,  foreshortened,  is 
drawn  by  death  and  decay  into  the  ghastly  likeness  of  an 
ape's.^  The  girl's  face — seen  in  profile — is  quiet  and  still 
beautiful ;  her  long  hair  is  heaped  as  for  a  pillow  under  her 
head.  It  does  not  grow  like  St.  George's,  in  living  ripples, 
but  lies  in  fantastic  folds,  that  have  about  them  a  savour, 
not  of  death  only,  but  of  corruption.  For  all  its  pale  gold 
they  at  once  carry  back  one's  mind  to  Turner's  Pytho, 
where  the  arrow  of  Apollo  strikes  him  in  the  midst,  and, 
piercing,  reveals  his  foulness.  Round  her  throat  cling  a 
few  torn  rags,  these  only  remaining  of  the  white  garment 
that  clothed  her  once.  Carpaccio  was  a  diligent  student 
of  ancient  mythology.  Boccaccio's  very  learned  book  on 
the  Gods  was  the  standard  classical  dictionary  of  those  days 
in  Italy.  It  tells  us  how  the  Cyprian  Venus — a  mortal 
princess  in  reality,  Boccaccio  holds — to  cover  her  own 
disgrace  led  the  maidens  of  her  country  to  the  sea-sands, 
and,  stripping  them  there,  tempted  them  to  follow  her  in 

>  In  the  great  Botticelli  of  the  National  Gallery,  known  as  Mars  and 
Venus,  but  almost  identical  with  the  picture  drawn  afterwards  by  Spenser 
of  the  Bower  of  Acrasia,  the  sleejjing  youth  wears  an  expression,  though 
less  strongly  marked,  very  similar  to  that  of  this  dead  face  here.  Such 
brutish  paralysis  is  with  scientific  accuracy  made  special  to  the  male.  It 
may  be  noticed  that  the  power  of  venomously  wounding,  expressed  by 
Carpaccio  through  the  Dragon's  spines,  is  in  the  Botticelli  signified  by 
the  swarm  of  hornets  issuing  from  the  tree-trunk  by  the  young  man's 
head. 


1 68        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

shame.  I  suspect  Carpaccio  had  this  story  in  his  mind, 
and  meant  here  to  reveal  in  true  dragon  aspect  the  Venus 
that  once  seemed  fair,  to  show  by  this  shore  the  fate  of 
them  that  follow  her.  It  is  to  be  noticed  that  the  dead 
man  is  an  addition  made  by  Carpaccio  to  the  old  story. 
Maidens  of  the  people,  the  legend-writers  knew,  had  been 
sacrificed  before  the  Princess ;  but  only  he,  filling  the  tale 
— like  a  cup  of  his  country's  fairly  fashioned  glass — full 
of  the  wine  of  profitable  teaching,  is  aware  that  men  have 
often  come  to  these  yellow  sands  to  join  there  in  the  dance 
of  death — not  only,  nor  once  for  all,  this  Saint  who  clasped 
hands  with  Victory.  Two  ships  in  the  distance — one 
stranded,  with  rigging  rent  or  fallen,  the  other  moving 
prosperously  with  full  sails  on  its  course — symbolically 
repeat  this  thought.^ 

Frogs  clamber  about  the  corpse  of  the  man,  lizards 
about  the  woman.  Indeed  for  shells  and  creeping  things 
this  place  where  strangers  lie  slain  and  unburied  would 
have  been  to  the  good  Palissy  a  veritable  and  valued 
potter's  field.  But  to  every  one  of  these  cold  and  scaly 
creatures  a  special  symbolism  was  attached  by  the  science 
— not  unwisely  dreaming — of  Carpaccio's  day.  They  are, 
each  one,  painted  here  to  amplify  and  press  home  the  pic- 
ture's teaching.  These  lizards  are  born  of  a  dead  man's 
flesh,  these  snakes  of  his  marrow :  ^  and  adders,  the  most 
venomous,  are  still  only  lizards  ripened  witheringly  from 

*  The  many  fall,  the  one  succeeds. 

«  The  "  silver  cord  "  not  ••  loosed  "  in  God's  peace,  but  thus  devilishly 
quickened. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        169 

loathsome  flower  into  poisonous  fruit.  The  frogs  ^ — sym- 
bols, Pierius  tells  us,  of  imperfection  and  shamelessness — 
are  in  transfigured  form  those  Lycian  husbandmen  whose 
foul  words  mocked  Latona,  whose  feet  defiled  the  wells  of 
water  she  thirsted  for,  as  the  veiled  mother  painfully  jour- 
neyed with  those  two  babes  on  her  arm,  of  whom  one 
should  be  Queen  of  Maidenhood,  the  other,  the  Lord  of 
Light,  and  Guardian  of  the  Ways  of  Men.  This  subtle 
association  between  batrachians  and  love  declining  to  sense 
lay  very  deep  in  the  Italian  mind.  In  Ariadne  Florentina 
there  are  two  engravings  from  Botticelli  of  Venus,  as  a 
star  floating  through  heaven  and  as  foam-born  rising  from 
the  sea.  Both  pictures  are  most  subtly  beautiful,  yet  in  the 
former  the  lizard  likeness  shows  itself  distinctly  in  the  face, 
and  a  lizard's  tail  appears  in  manifest  form  as  pendulous 
crest  of  the  chariot,  while  in  the  latter  not  only  contours 
of  profile  and  back,^  but  the  selected  attitude  of  the  god- 
dess, bent  and  half  emergent,  with  hand  resting  not  over 
firmly  upon  level  shore  irresistibly  recall  a  frog. 

In  the  foreground,  between  St.  George  and  the  Dragon, 
a  spotted  lizard  labours  at  the  task  set  by  Sisyphus  in  hell 
for  ever.  Sisyphus,  the  cold-hearted  and  shifty  son  of 
/Eolus,  stained  in  life  by  nameless  lust,  received  his  mock- 
ing doom  of  toil,  partly  for  his  treachery — winning  this 
only  in  the  end, — partly  because  he  opposed  the  divine 
conception   of  the   /Eacid    race  ;   but   above  all,  as  penalty 

'Compare  the  "unclean  sjiirits  come  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  dragon," 
in  Revelation. 

» Compare  the  account  of  the  Frog's  hump,  Ariadne  Florentina,  p.  93. 


170       ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

for  the  attempt  to  elude  the  fate  of  death  "that  is  ap- 
pointed alike  for  all,"  by  refusal  for  his  own  body  of  that 
"  sowing  in  corruption,"  against  which  a  deeper  furrow  is 
prepared  by  the  last  of  husbandmen  with  whose  labour  each 
of  us  has  on  earth  to  do.  Then  finding  that  Carpaccio 
has  had  in  his  mind  one  scene  of  Tartarus,  we  may  believe 
the  corpse  in  the  background,  torn  by  carrion-birds,  to  be 
not  merely  a  meaningless  incident  of  horror  but  a  reminis- 
cence of  enduring  punishment  avenging  upon  Tityus  the 
insulted  purity  of  Artemis.^ 

The  coiled  adder  is  the  familiar  symbol  of  eternity,  here 
meant  either  to  seal  for  the  defeated  their  fate  as  final,  or 
to  hint  with  something  of  Turner's  sadness,  that  this  is  a 
battle  not  gained  "  once  for  ever  "  and  "  for  all,"  but  to  be 
fought  anew  by  every  son  of  man,  while,  for  each,  defeat 
shall  be  deadly,  and  victory  still  most  hard,  though  an 
armed  Angel  of  the  Victory  of  God  be  our  marshal  and 
leader  in  the  contest.  A  further  comparison  with  Turner 
is  suggested  by  the  horse's  skull  between  us  and  St.  George. 
A  similar  skeleton  is  prominent  in  the  corresponding  part 
of  the  foreground  in  the  "  Jason  "  of  the  Liber  Studiorum. 
But  Jason  clambers  to  victory  on  foot,  allows  no  charger  to 
bear  him  in  the  fight.  Turner,  more  an  antique  Hellene 
than  a  Christian  prophet,  had,  as  all  the  greatest  among  the 
Greeks,  neither  vision  nor  hope  of  any  more  perfect  union 
between  lower  and  higher  nature  by  which  that  inferior 
creation,  groaning  now  with  us  in  pain,  should  cease  to  be 

1  Or,  as  the  story  is  otherwise  given,  of  the  mother  of  Artemis,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Lycian  peasants  above. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        171 

type  of  the  mortal  element,  which  seems  to  shame  our  soul 
as  basing  it  in  clay,  and,  with  that  element,  become  a 
temple-platform,  lifting  man's  life  to  heaven.^ 

With  Turner's  adder,  too,  springing  immortal  from  the 
Python's  wound,  we  cannot  but  connect  this  other  adder 
of  Carpaccio's  issuing  from  the  white  skull  of  a  great  snake. 
Adders,  according  to  an  old  fancy,  were  born  from  the 
jaws  of  their  living  mother.  Supernatural  horror  attaches 
to  this  symbolic  one,  writhing  out  from  between  the  teeth 
of  the  ophidian  death's-head.  And  the  plague,  not  yet 
fully  come  forth,  but  already  about  its  father's  business, 
venomously  fastens  on  a  frog,  type  of  the  sinner  whose 
degradation  is  but  the  beginning  of  punishment.  So  soon 
the  worm  that  dies  not  is  also  upon  him — in  its  fang 
Circean  poison  to  make  the  victim  one  with  his  plague,  as 
in  that  terrible  circle  those,  afflicted,  whom  "  vita  bestial 
piacque  e  non  huinanay 

Two  spiral  shells^  lie  on  the  sand,  in  shape  related  to 
each  other  as  frog  to  lizard,  or  as  Spenser's  urchins,  spoken 
of  above,  to   his   snails.      One   is   round   and   short,  with 


'  Pegasus  and  the  immortal  horses  of  Achilles,  born  like  Pegasus  by  the 
ocean  wells,  are  always  to  be  recognized  as  spiritual  creatures — not  as  St. 
George's  horse  here — earthly  creatures,  though  serving  and  manifesting 
divine  power.  Compare,  too,  the  fate  of  Argus  (Homer,  Od.,  XVII.). 
In  the  great  Greek  philosophies,  similarly,  we  find  a  realm  of  formless 
shadow  eternally  unconquered  by  sacred  order,  ofTering  a  contrast  to  the 
modern  systems  which  aim  at  a  unity  to  be  reached,  if  not  by  reason,  at 
least  by  what  one  may  not  inaccurately  call  an  act  of  faith. 

•  Ovid  associates  shells  with  the  enemy  of  Andromeda,  but  regarding  it 
<u  a  very  ancient  and  fishlike  monster,  plants  them  on  his  back — "  terga 
eavis  sujer  obiila  conchis" — Ovid  Met.  IV.,  724. 


172        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

smooth  viscous-looking  lip,  turned  over,  and  lying  towards 
the  spectator.  The  other  is  finer  in  form,  and  of  a  kind 
noticeable  for  its  rovi^s  of  delicate  spines.  But,  since  the 
dweller  in  this  one  died,  the  waves  of  many  a  long-fallen 
tide  rolling  on  the  shingle  have  worn  it  almost  smooth,  as 
you  may  see  its  fellows  to-day  by  hundreds  along  Lido 
shore.  Now  such  shells  were,  through  heathen  ages  in- 
numerable and  over  many  lands,  holy  things,  because  of 
their  whorls  moving  from  left  to  right  ^  in  some  mysterious 
sympathy,  it  seemed,  with  the  sun  in  his  daily  course 
through  heaven.  Then  as  the  open  clam-shell  was  special 
symbol  of  Venus,  so  these  became  of  the  Syrian  Venus, 
Ashtaroth,  Ephesian  Artemis,  queen,  not  of  purity  but  of 
abundance,  Myletta,  '  ijTc?  nor '  iazh,  the  many  named  and 
widely  worshipped.  In  Syrian  figures  still  existing  she 
bears  just  such  a  shell  in  her  hand.  Later  writers,  with 
whom  the  source  of  this  symbolism  was  forgotten,  ac- 
counted for  it,  partly  by  imaginative  instinct,  partly  by 
fanciful  invention  concerning  the  nature  and  way  of  life 
of  these  creatures.  But  there  is  here  yet  a  further  refer- 
ence, since  from  such  shells  along  the  Syrian  coast  was 
crushed  out,  sea-purple  and  scarlet,  the  juice  of  the  Tyrian 
dye.  And  the  power  of  sensual  delight  throned  in  the  chief 
places  of  each  merchant  city,  decked  her  "  stately  bed  " 
with  coverings  whose  tincture  was  the  slain  of  that  bap- 
tism.^    The   shells  are  empty  now,  devoured — lizards  on 

1  In   India,  for  the  same  reason,  one  of  the  leading  marks  of  the  Bud- 
dha's perfection  was  his  hair,  thus  spiral, 

2  The  purple  of  Lydda  was  famous.     Compare  Fors  Clavigera,  April, 
1876,  p.  2,  and  Deucalion,  §  39. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        1 73 

land  or  sea-shore  are  ever  to  such  "  hiimiassimum  genus  " — 
or  wasted  in  the  deep.  For  the  ripples  that  have  thrown 
and  left  them  on  the  sand  are  a  type  of  the  lusts  of  men, 
that  leap  up  from  the  abyss,  surge  over  the  shore  of  life, 
and  fall  in  swift  ebb,  leaving  desolation  behind. 

Near  the  coiled  adder  is  planted  a  withered  human  head. 
The  sinews  and  skin  of  the  neck  spread,  and  clasp  the 
ground — as  a  zoophyte  does  its  rock — in  hideous  mimicry 
of  an  old  tree's  knotted  roots.  Two  feet  and  legs  torn  off 
by  the  knee,  lean  on  this  head,  one  against  the  brow  and 
the  other  behind.  The  scalp  is  bare  and  withered.  These 
things  catch  one's  eye  on  the  first  glance  at  the  picture, 
and  though  so  painful  are  made  thus  prominent  as  giving 
the  key  to  a  large  part  of  its  symbolism.  Later  Platonists — 
and  among  them  those  of  the  Fifteenth  Century, — de- 
veloped from  certain  texts  in  the  Timxus  a  doctrine  con- 
cerning the  mystical  meaning  of  hair,  which  coincides  with 
its  significance  to  the  vision  of  early  (pre-Platonic)  Greeks. 
As  a  tree  has  its  roots  in  earth,  and  set  thus,  must  patiently 
abide,  bearing  such  fruit  as  the  laws  of  nature  may  appoint, 
so  man,  being  of  other  family — these  dreamers  belonged  to 
a  very  "  pre-scientific  epoch  " — has  his  roots  in  heaven, 
and  has  the  power  of  moving  to  and  fro  over  the  earth  for 
service  to  the  Law  of  Heaven,  and  as  sign  of  his  free 
descent.  Of  the  diviner  roots  the  hair  is  visible  type. 
Plato  tells  us,  that  of  innocent,  light-hearted  men,  "  whose 
thoughts  were  turned  heavenward,"  but  "  who  imagined  in 
their  simplicity  that  the  clearest  demonstration  of  things 
above  was  to  be  obtained  by  sight  "  the  race  of  birds  had 


174        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

being,  by  change  of  external  shape  into  due  harmony  with 
the  soul  ("  [xereppuOiii^ero") — such  persons  growing  feathers 
instead  of  hair.^  We  have  in  Dante,'^  too,  an  inversion  of 
tree  nature  parallel  to  that  of  the  head  here.  The  tree, 
with  roots  in  air,  whose  sweet  fruit  is,  in  Purgatory, 
alternately  to  gluttonous  souls,  temptation,  and  purifying 
punishment — watered,  Landino  interprets,  by  the  descend- 
ing spray  of  Lethe — signifies  that  these  souls  have  for- 
gotten the  source  and  limits  of  earthly  pleasure,  seeking 
vainly  in  it  satisfaction  for  the  hungry  and  immortal  spirit. 
So  here,  this  blackened  head  of  the  sensual  sinner  is  rooted 
to  earth,  the  sign  of  strength  drawn  from  above  is  stripped 
from  off  it,  and  beside  it  on  the  sand  are  laid,  as  in  hideous 
mockery,  the  feet  that  might  have  been  beautiful  upon  the 
mountains.  Think  of  the  woman's  body  beyond,  and  then 
of  the  head — "  Instead  of  a  girdle,  a  rent ;  and  instead  of 
well-set  hair,  baldness."  The  worm's  brethren,  the 
Dragon's  elect,  wear  such  shameful  tonsure,  unencircled 
by  the  symbolic  crown ;  prodigal  of  life,  "  resurgeranno" 
from  no  quiet  grave,  but  from  this  haunt  of  horror,  '■'- co  crin 
mozzi"^ — in  piteous  witness  of  wealth  ruinously  cast 
away.  Then  compare,  in  light  of  the  quotation  from 
Plato  above,  the  dragon's  thorny  plumage;  compare,  too, 
the   charger's   mane   and   tail,  and  the  rippling  glory  that 

'  The  most  devoid  of  wisdom  were  stretched  on  earth,  becoming  foot- 
less and  creeping  things,  or  sunk  as  fish  in  the  sea.  So,  we  saw  Venus's 
chosen  transmigration  was  into  the  form  of  an  eel — other  authorities  say, 
of  a  fish. 

«  Dante,  Purg.,  XXII.,  XXIII. 

»  Dante,  /«/,  VII.,  57.     Purg.  XXII.,  46, 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        I75 

crowns  St.  George.  It  is  worth  while,  too,  to  have  in  mind 
the  words  of  the  "  black  cherub  "  that  had  overheard  the 
treacherous  counsel  of  Guido  de  Montefeltro.  From  the 
moment  it  was  uttered,  to  that  of  the  sinner's  death,  the  evil 
spirit  says,  stato  gli  sono  a  crini "  ' — lord  of  his  fate. 
Further,  in  a  Venetian  series  of  engravings,  illustrating 
Dante  (published  1491),  the  fire-breathings  of  the  Dragon 
on  Cacus'  shoulders  transform  themselves  into  the  Cen- 
taur's femininely  flowing  hair,  to  signify  the  inspiration  of 
his  forceful  fraud.  This  "power  on  the  head"  he  has 
because  of  such  an  angel."  When  we  consider  the  Princess 
we  shall  find  this  symbolism  yet  further  carried,  but  just 
now  have  to  notice  how  the  closely  connected  franchise  of 
graceful  motion,  lost  to  the  dishonoured  ones,  is  marked  by 
the  most  carefully  painted  bones  lying  on  the  left — a  thigh- 
bone dislocated  from  that  of  the  hip,  and  then  thrust 
through  it.  Curiously,  too,  such  dislocation  would  in  life 
produce  a  hump,  mimicking  fairly  enough  in  helpless  dis- 
tortion that  one  to  which  the  frog's  leaping  power  is  due.  ' 
Centrally  in  the  foreground  is  set  the  skull,  perhaps  of 
an  ape,  but  more  probably  of  an  ape-like  man,  "with  fore- 
head villanous  low."  This  lies  so  that  its  eye-socket  looks 
out,  as  it  were,  through  the  empty  eyehole  of  a  sheep's 
skull  beside  it.  When  man's  vision  has  become  ovine 
merely,  it  shall  at  last,  even  of  grass,  see  only  such  bitter 
and  dangerous  growth  as  our  husbandman  must  reap  with  a 
spear  from  a  dragon's  wing. 

'  name,  A;/:,  X.\  VI  I.  »  Dante,  /m/,  XXV. 

*  Ariadnt  J- lor  en  tin  a,  Lcct.  III.,  p.  93. 


176        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

The  remaining  minor  words  of  this  poem  in  a  forgotten 
tongue  I  cannot  definitely  interpret.  The  single  skull  with 
jaw-bone  broken  off,  lying  under  the  dragon's  belly,  fails  to 
be  mentioned  afterwards.  The  ghastly  heap  of  them, 
crowned  by  a  human  mummy,  withered  and  brown,'  be- 
side the  coil  of  the  dragon's  tail,  seem  meant  merely  to  add 
general  emphasis  to  the  whole.  The  mummy,  (and  not 
this  alone  in  the  picture)  may  be  compared  with  Spenser's 
description  of  the  Captain  of  the  Army  of  Lusts  : — 

**  His  body  lean  and  meagre  as  a  rake. 
And  skin  all  withered  like  a  dried  rock. 
Thereto  as  cold  and  dreary  as  a  snake. 

Upon  his  head  he  wore  a  helmet  light. 
Made  of  a  dead  man's  skull,  that  seemed  a  ghastly  sight." 

The  row  of  five  palm  trees  behind  the  dragon's  head 
perhaps  refers  to  the  kinds  of  temptation  over  which 
Victory  must  be  gained,  and  may  thus  be  illustrated  by  the 
five  troops  that  in  Spenser  assail  the  seven  senses,  or  beside 
Chaucer's  five  fingers  of  the  hand  of  lust.  It  may  be 
observed  that  Pliny  speaks  of  the  Essenes — preceders  of  the 
Christian  Hermits — who  had  given  up  the  world  and  its 
joys  as  *■*■  gens  socia  palmarum."  ^ 

Behind  the  dragon,  in  the  far  background,  is  a  great 
city.  Its  walls  and  towers  are  crowded  by  anxious  specta- 
tors of  the  battle.     There  stands  in  it,  on  a  lofty  pedestal, 

'The  venom  of  the  stellio,  a   spotted  species   of  lizai^,  eraUitfm  of 
shamelessness,  was  held  to  cause  blackening  of  the  face. 
»  Pliny,  Hist.  Nat.,  V.,  17. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        I  77 

the  equestrian  statue  of  an  emperor  on  horseback,  perhaps 
placed  there  by  Carpaccio  for  sign  of  Alexandria,  perhaps 
merely  from  a  Venetian's  pride  and  joy  in  the  great  figure 
of  Colleone  recently  set  up  in  his  citv.  In  the  background 
of  the  opposite  (St.  George's)  side  of  the  picture  rises  a 
precipitous  hill,  crowned  by  a  church.  The  cliffs  are 
waveworn,  an  arm  of  the  sea  passing  between  them  and 
the  city. 

Of  these  hieroglyphics,  only  the  figure  of  the  princess 
now  remains  for  our  reading.  The  expression  on  her  face, 
ineffable  by  descriptive  words  '  is  translated  into  more 
tangible  symbols  by  the  gesture  of  her  hands  and  arms. 
These  repeat,  with  added  grace  and  infinitely  deepened 
meaning,  the  movement  of  maidens  who  encourage 
Theseus  or  Cadmus  in  their  battle  with  monsters  on  many 
a  Greek  vase.  They  have  been  clasped  in  agony  and 
prayer,  but  are  now  parting — still  just  a  little  doubtfully — 
into  a  gesture  of  joyous  gratitude  to  this  captain  of  the 
army  of  salvation  and  to  the  captain's  Captain.  Raphael ' 
has  painted  her  running  from  the  scene  of  battle.  Even 
with  Tintoret  ^  she  turns  away  for  flight ;  and  if  her  hands 
are  raised  to  heaven,  and  her  knees  fall  to  the  earth,  it  is 
more  that   she  stumbles  in  a  woman's  weakness,  than  that 

•Suppose  Caliban  had  conquered  Prospero,  and  fettered  him  in  a  fig- 
tree  or  elsewhere;  that  Miranda,  after  watching  the  struggle  from  the 
cave,  had  seen  him  coming  triumphantly  to  seize  her ;  and  that  the  first 
appearance  of  Ferdinand  is,  just  at  that  moment,  to  her  rescue.  If  we 
conceive  how  she  would  have  looked  then,  it  may  give  some  parallel  to 
the  expression  on  the  princess's  face  in  this  picture,  but  without  a  certain 
light  of  patient  devotion  here  well  marked. 

'  Louvre.  ■  National  Gallery. 


178       ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

she  abides  in  faith  or  sweet  self-surrender.  Tintoret  sees 
the  scene  as  in  the  first  place  a  matter  of  fact,  and  paints 
accordingly,  following  his  judgment  of  girl  nature.^ 

Carpaccio  sees  it  as  above  all  things  a  matter  of  faith, 
and  paints  mythically  for  our  teaching.  Indeed,  doing  this, 
he  repeats  the  old  legend  with  more  literal  accuracy.  The 
princess  was  offered  as  a  sacrifice  for  her  people.  If  not 
willing,  she  was  at  least  submissive  ;  nor  for  herself  did  she 
dream  of  flight.  No  chains  in  the  rock  were  required  for 
the  Christian  Andromeda. 

"  And  the  king  said,  ...  *  Daughter,  I  would  you 
had  died  long  ago  rather  than  that  I  should  lose  you  thus.' 
And  she  fell  at  his  feet,  asking  of  him  a  father's  blessing. 
And  when  he  had  blessed  her  once  and  again,  with  tears 
she  went  her  way  to  the  shore.  Now  St.  George  chanced 
to  pass  by  that  place,  and  he  saw  her,  and  asked  why  she 
wept.  But  she  answered,  '  Good  youth,  mount  quickly 
and  flee  away,  that  you  die  not  here  shamefully  with  me.' 
Then  St.  George  said,  '  Fear  not,  maiden,  but  tell  me  what 
it  is  you  wait  for  here,  and  all  the  people  stand  far  off"  be- 
holding.' And  she  said,  '  I  see,  good  youth,  how  great  of 
heart  you  are ;  but  why  do  you  wish  to  die  with  me  ? ' 
And  St.  George  answered,  '  Maiden,  do  not  fear ;  I  go  not 
hence  till  you  tell  me  why  you  weep.'  And  when  she  had 
told  him  all,  he  answered,  '  Maiden,  have  no  fear,  for  in  the 
name  of  Christ  will  I   save  you.'     And  she  said,  '  Good 

1  And  perhaps  from  a  certain  ascetic  feeling,  a  sense  growing  with  the 
growing  license  of  Venice,  that  the  soul  must  rather  escape  from  this 
monster  by  flight,  than  hope  to  see  it  subdued  and  made  serviceable. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        1 79 

soldier, — lest  you  perish  with  me  !  For  that  I  perish  alone 
is  enough,  and  you  could  not  save  me ;  you  would  perish 
with  me.*  Now  while  she  spoke  the  dragon  raised  his 
head  from  the  waters.  And  the  maiden  cried  out  all 
trembling,  '  Flee,  my  good  lord,  flee  away  swiftly.'  "  '  But 
our  "  very  loyal  cheralier  of  the  faith  "  saw  cause  to  dis- 
obey the  lady. 

Yet  Carpaccio  means  to  do  much  more  than  just  repeat 
this  story.  His  princess  (it  is  impossible,  without  undue 
dividing  of  its  substance,  to  put  into  logical  words  the  truth 
here  "  embodied  in  a  tale") — but  this  princess  represents 
the  soul  of  man.  And  therefore  she  wears  a  coronet  of 
seven  gems,  for  the  seven  virtues;  and  of  these,  the  mid- 
most that  crowns  her  forehead  is  shaped  into  the  figure  of  a 
cross,  signifying  faith,  the  saving  virtue.^  We  shall  see 
that  in  the  picture  of  Gethsemane  also,  Carpaccio  makes 
the  representative  of  faith  central.  Without  faith,  men 
indeed  may  shun  the  deepest  abyss,  yet  cannot  attain  the 
glory  of  heavenly  hope  and  love.  Dante  saw  how  such 
men — even  the  best — may  not  know  the  joy  that  is  perfect. 
Moving  in  the  divided  splendour  merely  of  under  earth,  or 
sward  whose  "  fresh  verdure,"  eternally  changeless,  expects 
neither  in  patient  waiting  nor  in  sacred  hope  the  early  and 
the  latter  rain, '  "  Sembianxa  avevan  ne  trista  tie  lieta." 

'  Legenda  Aurea. 

•  St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  putting  logically  the  apostle's  "substance  of 
things  hoped  for,"  defines  faith  as  "  a  habit  of  mind  by  which  eternal  life 
is  begun  in  us  "  fSuiiuna  II.,  III.,  IV.,  i). 

•Epistle  of  James  v.,  I)ante  selects  (and  Carpaccio  follows  him)  as 
beaveoly  judge  of  a  right  hope  that  apostle  who  reminds  his  reader  bow 


l80        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

This  maiden,  then,  is  an  incarnation  of  spiritual  life, 
mystically  crowned  with  all  the  virtues.  But  their  diviner 
meaning  is  yet  unrevealed,  and  following  the  one  legible 
command,  she  goes  down  to  such  a  death  for  her  people, 
vainly.  Only  by  help  of  the  hero  who  slays  monstrous 
births  of  nature,  to  sow  and  tend  in  its  organic  growth  the 
wholesome  plant  of  civil  life,  may  she  enter  into  that 
liberty  with  which  Christ  makes  His  people  free. 

The  coronet  of  the  princess  is  clasped  about  a  close  red 
cap  which  hides  her  hair.  Its  tresses  are  not  yet  cast 
loose,  inasmuch  as,  till  the  dragon  be  subdued,  heavenly 
life  is  not  secure  for  the  soul  nor  its  marriage  with  the 
great  Bridegroom  complete.  In  corners  even  of  Western 
Europe  to  this  day,  a  maiden's  hair  is  jealously  covered  till 
her  wedding.  Compare  now  this  head  with  that  of  St. 
George.  Carpaccio,  painting  a  divine  service  of  mute 
prayer  and  acted  prophecy,  has  followed  St.  Paul's  law  con- 
cerning vestments.  But  we  shall  see  how,  when  prayer  is 
answered  and  prophecy  fulfilled — "  a  glory  to  her,"  and 
given  by  Nature  for  a  veil — is  sufficient  covering  upon  the 
maiden's  head,  bent  in  a  more  mystic  rite. 

From  the  cap  hangs  a  long  scarf-like  veil.  It  is  twisted 
once  about  the  princess's  left  arm,  and  then  floats  in  the 
air.  The  effect  of  this  veil  strikes  one  on  the  first  glance 
at  the  picture.     It  gives  force  to  the  impression  of  natural 

man's  life  is  even  as  a  vapour  that  appeareth  for  a  little  time  and  then 
vanisheth  away.  For  the  connection — geologically  historic — of  grass  and 
showers  with  true  human  life,  compare  Genesis  ii.  5-8,  where  the  right 
translation  is,  "  And  no  plant  of  the  field  was  yet  in  the  earth,  and  no  herb 
yet  sprung  up  or  grown,"  etc. 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON        l8l 

fear,  yet  strangely,  in  light  fold,  adds  a  secret  sense  of  se- 
curity, as  though  the  gauze  were  some  secret  sgis.  And 
such  indeed  it  is,  nor  seen  first  by  Carpaccio,  though 
probably  his  intuitive  invention  here.  There  is  a  Greek 
vase  picture  of  Cadmus  attacking  a  dragon,  Ares-begotten, 
that  guarded  the  sacred  spring  of  the  warrior-god.  That 
fight  was  thus  for  the  same  holy  element  whose  sym- 
bolic sprinkling  is  the  end  of  this  one  here.  A  maiden 
anxiously  watches  the  event ;  her  gesture  resembles  the 
princess's ;  her  arm  is  similarly  shielded  by  a  fold  of  her 
mantle.  But  we  have  a  parallel  at  once  more  familiar  and 
more  instructively  perfect  than  this.  Cadmus  had  a  daughter, 
to  whom  was  given  power  upon  the  sea,  because  in  utmost 
need  she  had  trusted  herself  to  the  mercy  of  its  billows. 
Ladv  of  its  foam,  in  hours  when  "the  blackening  wave  is 
edged  with  white,"  she  is  a  holier  and  more  helpful  Aph- 
rodite,— a  "  water-sprite  "  whose  voice  foretells  that  not 
"wreck"  but  salvation  "is  nigh."  In  the  last  and  most 
terrible  crisis  of  that  long  battle  with  the  Power  of  Ocean, 
who  denied  him  a  return  to  his  Fatherland,  Ulysses  would 
have  perished  in  the  waters  without  the  veil  of  Leucothca 
wrapped  about  his  breast  as  divine  life-buoy.  And  that 
veil,  the  "immortal"  "  a /jyk/ivf^i',"  '  was  just  such  a  scarf 
attached    to   the    head-dress   as   this   one  of  the  princess's 


'  In  pursuance  of  the  same  symbolism,  Troy  walls  were  once  literally 
called  "salvation,"  this  wonl,  with,  for  certain  historical  reasons,  the 
added  epithet  of  "  holy,"  being  applied  to  them.  With  the  Kin'.?itiiva 
Penelope      shielded      her      tender     "  cheeks "      in     presence     of      the 

suitors. 


1 82        ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON 

here.  Curiously,  too,  we  shall  see  that  Leucothea  (at  first 
called  Ino),  of  Thebes  and  Cadmus'  line,  daughter  of 
Harmonia,  is  closely  connected  with  certain  sources  of  the 
story  of  St.  George. 


IIW-' 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  TAILOR 

(Moroni)  ,  j 

COSMO    MONKHOUSE 

MORETTO'S  pupil,  Giambattista  Moroni  (about 
1525-1578),  preat  portrait-painter  though  he  was, 
could  not  equal  his  master  in  reflecting  the  fine  style  of  the 
Italian  nobility.  By  him  we  have'  also  two  portraits  of  the 
Brecian  aristocracy,  but  though  they  are  not  without  dig- 
nity and  strength  of  character,  they  are  but  commonplace 
persons  by  the  side  of  IVIoretto's  grandees.  One  of  them 
(No.  1022)  Is  supposed  to  be  a  member  of  the  same  family 
as  No.  1025,  and  is  finely  painted  In  a  very  reticent  scheme 
of  cool,  almost  cold,  colour;  the  other  (No.  13 16),  which 
looks  almost  as  if  It  had  been  painted  for  Its  pendant,  Is 
the  less  agreeable  of  the  two,  on  account  of  the  redness  of 
the  flesh  tints,  a  characteristic  of  his  earlier  manner.  It 
is,  however,  masterly  In  execution — a  merit  which  must  be 
accorded  to  the  not  very  pleasant  Portrait  of  an  Italian  Lady 
(No.  1023),  who  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  wife  of  No. 
1022.  On  the  whole,  so  far,  at  least,  as  this  Gallery  is 
concerned,  Moroni's  genius  Is  best  seen  in  his  portraits  of 
less  distinguished  personages-,  in  his  Lnicyer  (No.  742),  his 
Ecclestoitic  (No.  1024),  and  in  the  moet  celebrated,  if  not 
*  National  Gallery. 


184  PORTRAIT  OF  A  TAILOR 

the  best  of  all,  his  famous  Tailor  (No.  697).  If  we  take 
into  consideration  the  excellence  of  its  preservation  (it 
seems  as  fresh  in  colour  as  the  day  it  was  painted),  the 
crispness  of  its  execution,  and  its  spirited  character,  the 
Lawyer  ought  to  be  awarded  the  first  place.  But  the 
Tailor  besides  its  beautiful  and  subtly  gradated  tones  and 
its  life-like  attitude,  has  the  great  merits  of  extreme  sim- 
plicity and  naturalness.  The  action  of  the  man,  as  he 
stays  his  shears  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  a  customer,  gives 
the  picture  the  charm  of  incident,  the  attraction  of  a  genre- 
picture  added  to  that  of  a  portrait;  and  so  it  has  become, 
and  deservedly  become,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  all  por- 
traits by  an  "old  master."  Though  deficient  in  intel- 
lectual quality  and  somewhat  faded,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
in  colour,  it  is  perfect  in  character,  exquisite  in  tone, 
and  completely  intelligible  to  everybody — a  beautiful 
picture  and  a  peepshow  into  the  Sixteenth  Century, 
which  tells  us  that  the  men  then  living  were  very  much 
like  ourselves.  We  meet  Tagliapanni  (for  this  was  his 
name)  every  day  in  the  street. 


THE  TAGLIAPANNI;  OR  PORTRAIT  OF  A 
TAILOR 


R.   N.   WORNUM 


-^ 


Quel  d'un  Sartor,  si  belo,  c  si  ben  fato, 
Che'l  parla  piu  de  qual  se  sia  Avocato  ; 
L'ha  in  man  la  forfe,  e  vu  el  vede  a  tagiar. 
Cdrta  del  Navegar  Pitoresco  (1660). 

SUCH  is  the  notice  by  Boschini  of  this  remarkable 
portrait ;  this  likeness  more  speaking,  he  says,  than 
any  advocate;  and  telling  us,  too,  his  occupation  by  the 
shears  and  cloth. 

This  Tailor  in  the  National  Gallery  and  the  'Jesuit  at 
Stafford  House,  by  the  same  hand,  are  two  of  the  best 
portraits  in  England.  They  are  both  the  work  of  the 
excellent  Bergamasc  master  Giambattista  Moroni,  who, 
according  to  Ridolfi,  had  so  gained  the  admiration  of 
Titian,  as  to  make  him  politely  question  the  good  taste 
of  some  of  his  patrons  who  came  from  Bergamo  to  be 
painted  by  him,  when  they  had  so  great  a  master  of  painting 
at  home.  Moroni  was  an  historical  and  portrait-painter, 
and  a  native  of  Albino,  near  Bergamo:  he  studied  his  art 
under  il  Moretto,  at  Brescia.  He  died  at  Bergamo  on  the 
5th  of  February,  1578.  In  the  Berlin  Gallery  is  a  pur- 
trait  of  himself  by  .Monjni. 

The   half-length   of  an    Advocate  (in    the    National   Col- 


l86      TAGLIAPANNI;  OR  PORTRAIT  OF  A  TAILOR 

lection)  is  also  by  Moroni.  These  portraits  are  of  the 
realistic  school,  yet  painted  with  perfect  freedom.  In  this 
instance,  besides  the  painting,  we  must  admire  also  the 
good  sense  of  the  Tagliapanni,  or  cutter-out,  who  has 
chosen  to  be  represented  engaged  in  his  humble  vocation, 
rather  than  be  painted  in  fine  clothes  as  a  fine  gentleman. 
He  did  not  despise  the  means  to  which  he  owed  his  posi- 
tion. He  is  dressed  in  an  undyed  flannel  jacket  and  red 
breeches,  with  small  white  frills  at  neck  and  wrists,  and  a 
leather  belt  around  his  waist.  He  is  standing  at  his  board, 
with  the  shears  in  his  right  hand,  on  the  point  of  cutting 
out  a  piece  of  black  cloth,  on  which  the  white  chalk  lines 
are  visible.  The  expression  of  the  face  is  thoroughly  indi- 
vidual, and  it  is  clear  that  we  have  no  conventional  work 
here  :  he  is  looking  towards  the  spectator  and  seems  to  be 
speaking  to  some  one. 

Half-length,  life  size.  On  canvas,  3  ft.  23^  in.  high, 
by  2  ft.  5^  in.  wide.  Formerly  in  the  Grimani  Palace  at 
Venice ;  subsequently  in  the  possession  of  Signer  F.  Friz- 
zoni  de  Salis,  at  Bergamo,  from  whom  it  was  purchased  in 
1862  by  Sir  Charles  Eastlake,  for  ;^320. 


I'OUTKAir    Ol      A     I  All. I  lit 


1 


\< 


THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS  (St.  Ursula  Series) 
( Carpaccio) 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

IF  you  have  looked  with  care  at  the  three  musicians,  or 
any  other  of  the  principal  figures,  in  the  great  town 
or  landscape  views  in  this  principal  room,  you  will  be 
ready  now  with  better  patience  to  trace  the  order  of  their 
subjects,  and  such  character  or  story  as  their  treatment 
mav  develop,  I  can  only  help  you,  however,  with  Car- 
paccio's,  for  I  have  not  been  able  to  examine,  or  much 
think  of,  Mansueti's,  recognizing  nevertheless  much  that 
is  delightful  in  them. 

By  Carpaccio,  then,  in  this  room,'  there  are  in  all  eleven 
important  pictures,  eight  from  the  legend  of  St.  Ursula, 
and  three  of  distinct  subjects.  Glance  first  at  the  series 
of  St.  Ursula  subjects,  in  this  order : — 

I. — 539.  Maurus,  the  king  of  Britany,  receives  the 
English  ambassadors ;  and  has  talk  with  his  daughter 
touching  their  embassy. 

II. — 533.     St.  Ursula's  Dream.* 

III. — 537.  King  Maurus  dismisses  the  English  ambas- 
sadors with  favourable  answer  from  his  daughter.  (This  is 
the  most  beautiful  piece  of  painting  in  the  rooms.) 

•  Or  at  least  in  the  Academy:  the  arrangement  may  perhaps  be  altered 
before  this  Guide  can  be  published:  at  all  events  we  must  not  couat^nit. 
•Sec  Great  Pictures,  (New  York,  1699),  facing  page  58. 


1 88  THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS 

IV. — 549.  The  King  of  England  receives  the  Prin- 
cess's favourable  answer. 

V. — 542.  The  Prince  of  England  sets  sail  for  Britany ; 
— there  receives  his  bride,  and  embarks  with  her  on  pil- 
grimage. 

VI. — 546.  The  Prince  of  England  and  his  bride,  voy- 
aging on  pilgrimage  with  the  eleven  thousand  maidens, 
arrive  at  Rome,  and  are  received  by  the  Pope,  who,  "  with 
certain  Cardinals,"  joins  their  pilgrimage.  (The  most  beau- 
tiful of  all  the  series,  next  to  the  Dream.) 

VII. — 554.  The  Prince  with  his  bride,  and  the  Pope 
with  his  Cardinals,  and  the  eleven  thousand  maids,  arrive 
in  the  land  of  the  Huns,  and  receive  martyrdom  there.  In 
the  second  part  of  the  picture  is  the  funeral  procession  of 
St.  Ursula. 

VIII. — St.  Ursula,  with  her  maidens,  and  the  pilgrim 
Pope,  and  certain  Cardinals,  in  glory  of  Paradise.  I 
have  always  forgotten  to  look  for  the  poor  bridegroom  in 
this  picture,  and  on  looking,  am  by  no  means  sure  of  him. 
But  I  suppose  it  is  he  who  holds  St.  Ursula's  standard. 
The  architecture  and  landscape  are  unsurpassably  fine ;  the 
rest  much  imperfect ;  but  containing  nobleness  only  to  be 
learned  by  long  dwelling  on  it. 

In  this  series,  I  have  omitted  one  picture,  544,  which  is 
of  scarcely  any  interest — except  in  its  curious  faults  and 
unworthiness.  At  all  events,  do  not  at  present  look  at  it, 
or  think  of  it ;  but  let  us  examine  all  the  rest  without 
hurry. 

In   the   first  place,  then,  we  find  this  curious  fact,  in- 


THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS  189 

tensely  characteristic  of  the  Fifteenth  as  opposed  to  the 
Nineteenth  Century — that  the  figures  are  true  and  natural, 
but  the  landscape  false  and  unnatural,  being  by  such  fallacy 
made  entirely  subordinate  to  the  figures.  I  have  never  ap- 
proved of,  and  only  a  little  understand,  this  state  of  things. 
The  painter  is  never  interested  in  the  ground,  but  only  in 
the  creatures  that  tread  on  it.  A  castle  tower  is  left  a 
mere  brown  bit  of  canvas,  and  all  his  colouring  kept  for 
the  trumpeters  on  the  top  of  it.  The  fields  are  obscurely 
green;  the  sky  imperfectly  blue;  and  the  mountains  could 
not  possibly  stand  on  the  very  small  foundations  they  are 
furnished  with. 

Here  is  a  Religion  of  Humanity,  and  nothing  else, — to 
purpose.  Nothing  in  the  universe  thought  worth  a  look, 
unless  it  is  in  service  or  foil  to  some  two-legged  creature 
showing  itself  off  to  the  best  advantage.  If  a  flower  is  in 
a  girl's  hair,  it  shall  be  painted  properly ;  but  in  the  fields, 
shall  be  only  a  spot ;  if  a  striped  pattern  is  on  a  boy's 
jacket,  we  paint  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  it,  and  drop  not  a 
stitch;  but  the  striped  patterns  of  vineyard  or  furrow  in 
field,  the  enamelled  mossy  mantles  of  the  rocks,  the  barred 
heraldry  of  the  shield  of  the  sky, — perhaps  insects  and 
birds  may  take  pleasure  in  them,  not  we.  To  his  own 
native  lagunes  and  sea,  the  painter  is  yet  less  sensitive.  His 
absurd  rocks,  and  d(jtty  black  hedges — round  bitumen- 
coloured  fields  (542),  are  yet  painted  with  some  grotesque 
humcjur,  some  modest  and  unworldly  beauty  ;  and  sustain 
or  engird  their  castellated  quaintncsses  in  a  manner  pleasing 
to  the   prc-Raphaelite   mind.     Uut  tiie  sea — wavelcss  as  a 


190  THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS 

deal  board — and  in  that  tranquillity,  for  the  most  part  re- 
flecting nothing  at  its  edge, — literally  such  a  sea  justifies 
that  uncourteous  saying  of  earlier  Venice  of  her  Doge's 
bride, — "  Mare  sub  pede  pom '."  ^  Of  all  these  deficiencies, 
characteristic  not  of  this  master  only,  but  of  his  age,  you 
will  find  various  analysis  in  the  third  volume  of  Modern 
Painters^  in  the  chapter  on  mediaeval  landscape ;  which  be- 
gun examination  of  the  causes  which  led  gradually  to  more 
accurate  observance  of  natural  phenomena,  until,  by  Turner, 
the  method  of  Carpaccio's  mind  is  precisely  reversed,  and 
the  Nature  in  the  background  becomes  principal ;  the  figures 
in  the  foreground,  its  foil.  I  have  a  good  deal  more,  how- 
ever, to  say  on  this  subject  now, — so  much  more,  indeed, 
that  in  this  little  Guide  there  is  no  proper  room  for  any  of 
it,  except  the  simple  conclusion  that  both  the  painters  are 
wrong  in  whatever  they  either  definitely  misrepresent  or 
enfeeble  by  inharmonious  deficiency. 

In  the  next  place  I  want  you  to  notice  Carpaccio's  fancy 
in  what  he  does  represent  very  beautifully, — the  architecture, 
real  and  ideal,  of  his  day. 

His  fancy,  I  say ;  or  phantasy ;  the  notion  he  has  of  what 
architecture  should  be;  of  which,  without  doubt,  you  see 
his  clearest  expression  in  the  Paradise,  and  in  the  palace  of 
the  most  Christian  king,  St.  Ursula's  father. 

And  here  I  must  ask  you  to  remember,  or  learn  if  you  do 

■  On  the  scroll  in  the  hand  of  the  throned  Venice  on  the  Piazetta  side 
of  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  entire  inscription  is, 

"Fords,  justa,  trono  furias,  mare  sub  pede  pono." 

"  Strong  and  just,  I  put  the  furies  beneath  my  throne,  and  the  sea  be- 
neath my  foot." 


THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS  I9I 

not  know,  the  general  course  of  transition  in  the  archi- 
tecture of  Venice ; — namely,  that  there  are  three  epochs  of 
good  building  in  Venice;  the  first  lasting  to  1300,  Byzan- 
tine, in  the  style  of  St.  Mark's;  the  second,  1300  to  1480, 
Gothic,  in  the  style  of  the  Ducal  Palace;  and  the  third 
1480  to  1520,  in  a  manner  which  architects  have  yet  given 
no  entirely  accepted  name  to,  but  which,  from  the  name 
of  its  greatest  designer,  Brother  Giocondo,  of  Verona,^  I 
mean,  mvself,  henceforward  to  call  "  Giocondine." 

Now  the  dates  on  these  pictures  of  Carpaccio's  run  from 
1480  to  1485,  so  that  you  see  he  was  painting  in  the  youth- 
ful gush,  as  it  were,  and  fullest  impetus  of  Giocondine 
architecture,  which  all  Venice,  and  chiefly  Carpaccio,  in  the 
joy  of  art,  thought  was  really  at  last  the  architecture  di- 
vinely designed,  and  arrived  at  by  steady  progress  of  taste, 
from  the  Creation  to  1480,  and  then  the  tie  plus  ultra^  and 
real  Babel-style  without  bewilderment — its  top  truly  reach- 
ing to  heaven, — style  which  was  never  thenceforth  to  be 
bettered  by  human  thought  or  skill.  Of  which  Giocondine 
manner,  I  really  think  you  had  better  at  once  see  a  substan- 
tially existing  piece.  It  will  not  take  long, — say  an  hour, 
with  lunch ;  and  the  good  doorkeeper  will  let  you  come  in 
again  without  paying. 

So,  (always  supposing  the  day  fine),  go  down  to  your 
boat,  and  order  yourself  to  be  taken  to  the  church 
of   the    prari.      Landing   just    beyond    it,  your   gondoliers 

•Called  "the  second  Founder  of  Venice,"  for  his  cnpincering  work  on 
the  Brcnta.  His  architecture  is  chiefly  at  Verona;  the  style  being  adopted 
and  enriched  at  Venice  by  the  Lombardi. 


192  THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS 

will  show  you  the  way,  up  the  calle  beside  it,  to  the 
desolate  little  courtyard  of  the  School  of  St.  John  the 
Evangelist.  It  might  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful  scenes 
among  the  cities  of  Italy,  if  only  the  good  Catholics  of 
Venice  would  employ  so  much  of  their  yearly  alms  in  the 
honour  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist  as  to  maintain  any  old 
gondolier,  past  rowing,  in  this  courtyard  by  way  of  a  Pat- 
mos,  on  condition  that  he  should  suffer  no  wildly  neglected 
children  to  throw  stones  at  the  sculptures,  nor  grown-up 
creatures  to  defile  them ;  but  with  occasional  ablution  by 
sprinkling  from  garden-water  engine,  suffer  the  weeds  of 
Venice  to  inhabit  among  the  marbles  where  they 
listed. 

How  beautiful  the  place  might  be,  I  need  not  tell  you. 
Beautiful  it  is,  even  in  its  squalid  misery ;  but  too  probably, 
some  modern  designer  of  railroad  stations  will  do  it  up  with 
new  gilding  and  scrapings  of  its  grey  stone.  The  gods 
forbid  ; — understand,  at  all  events,  that  if  this  happens  to 
it,  you  are  no  more  to  think  of  it  as  an  example  of  Gio- 
condine  art.  But,  as  long  as  it  is  let  alone  there,  in  the 
shafts  and  capitals  you  will  see  on  the  whole  the  most  char- 
acteristic example  in  Venice  of  the  architecture  that  Car- 
paccio,  Cima,  and  John  Bellini  loved. 

As  a  rule,  observe,  square-pierced,  not  round-pillared  ; — 
the  square  piers  either  sculptured  all  up  with  floral  tracery, 
or,  if  plain,  decorated,  half-way  up,  by  a  round  panel  of 
dark-coloured  marble  or  else  a  bas-relief,  usually  a  classic 
profile;  the  capitals,  of  light  leafage,  playing  or  springing 
into  joyful  spirals  at  the  angles  ;  the  mouldings  and  cornices 


THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS  «93 

on  the  whole  very  flat  and  square-cut, — no  solid  round 
mouldings  anywhere,  but  all  precise,  rectangular  and  shal- 
low. The  windows  and  doors  either  square-headed  or 
round, — never  pointed;  but,  if  square-headed,  having  often 
a  Greek  gable  or  pediment  above,  as  here  on  the  outer  wall ; 
and,  if  round-headed,  often  composed  of  two  semicircles 
side  by  side,  with  a  circle  between :  '  the  wall  decoration 
being  either  of  round  inlaid  marbles,  among  floral  sculpture, 
or  of  fresco.  Little  to  be  conceived  from  words  ;  but  if 
you  will  look  well  inside  and  outside  of  the  cortile  of  the 
Evangelist,  you  will  come  away  with  a  very  definite  primary 
notion  of  Giocondine  work. 

Then  back,  with  straight  speed  to  the  Academy  ;  and 
before  landmg  there,  since  you  can  see  the  little  square  in 
front  of  it,  from  your  boat,  read  on. 

The  little  square  has  its  name  written  up  at  the  corner, 
you  see, — "  Field  of  Charity,"  or  rather  of  the  Charity, 
meaning  the  Madonna  of  Charity,  and  church  dedicated  to 
her.  Of  which  you  see  the  mere  walls,  variously  defaced, 
remaining  yet  in  their  original  form, — traces  of  the  great 
circular  window  in  the  front  yet  'eft,  also  of  the  pointed 
windows  at  the  sides — filled  up,  many  a  year  ago,  and  the 
square  holes  below  cut  for  modern  convenience  :  there  being 
no  space   in   the  length  and   breadth   of  Italy  to  build  new 

'  In  returning  to  your  Ixjat,  just  walk  round  to  the  back  of  the  church 
of  the  Frari,  and  look  at  the  windows  of  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  which 
will  fix  the  form  in  your  mind.  It  is  an  entirely  bad  one  ;  but  took  the 
fancy  of  men,  for  a  time,  and  of  strong  ones,  too.  But  don't  stop  long 
just  now  to  look  at  this  later  building;  kfrpthe  St.  John's  cortile  for  your 
type  of  Giocondine  work,  pure. 


194  THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS 

square-holed  houses  on,  the   Church   of  Charity   must  be 
used  for  makeshift. 

Have  you  charity  of  imagination  enough  to  cover  this 
little  field  with  fresh  grass, — to  tear  down  the  iron  bridge 
which  some  accursed  Englishman,  I  suppose,  greedy  for 
filthy  job,  persuaded  the  poor  Venetians  to  spoil  their 
Grand  Canal  with,  at  its  noblest  bend, — and  to  fill  the 
pointed  lateral  windows  with  light  tracery  of  quatrefoiled 
stone  ?  So  stood,  so  bloomed,  the  church  and  its  field,  in 
early  Fourteenth  Century — dismal  time !  the  church  in 
its  fresh  beauty  then,  built  towards  the  close  of  the 
Thirteenth  Century,  on  the  sight  of  a  much  more 
ancient  one,  first  built  of  wood;  and,  in  1 119,  of  stone; 
but  still  very  small,  its  attached  monastery  receiving  Alex- 
ander III.  in  1 1 77  ; — here  on  the  little  flowery  field  landed 
the  Pontiff  Exile,  whose  foot  was  to  tread  so  soon  on  the 
Lion  and  the  Adder. 

And,  some  hundred  years  later,  putting  away,  one  finds 
not  why,  her  little  Byzantine  church,  more  gravely  medi- 
tative Venice,  visited  much  by  Dominican  and  Franciscan 
friars,  and  more  or  less  in  cowled  temper  himself,  built  this 
graver  and  simpler  pile;  which,  if  any  of  my  readers  care 
for  either  Turner  or  me,  they  should  look  at  with  some 
moments'  pause  ;  for  I  have  given  Turner's  lovely  sketch 
of  it  to  Oxford,  painted  as  he  saw  it  fifty  years  ago,  with 
bright  golden  sails  grouped  in  front  of  it  where  now  is  the 
ghastly  iron  bridge. 

Most  probably,  (I  cannot  yet  find  any  direct  document 
pf  it),  the   real   occasion   of    the   building  of  the  church 


THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS  1 95 

whose  walls  yet  stand,  was  the  founding  of  the  Confrater- 
nita  di  S.  iMaria  della  Carita,  on  St.  Leonard's  Day,  6th 
November,  1260,  which  brotherhood,  in  1310,  fought  side 
by  side  with  the  school  of  the  Painters  in  St.  Luke's  held, 
against  one  body  of  the  conspirators  for  Bajamonte,  and 
drove  them  back,  achieving  the  right  thenceforward  of 
planting  their  purple  standard  there,  in  St.  Luke's  field, 
with  their  stemma;  (all  this  bears  on  Carpaccio's  picture 
presently,  so  have  patience  yet  a  minute  or  two),  and  so 
increasing  in  number  and  influence,  bought  in  1344,  from 
the  Monks  of  the  Church  of  Charity,  the  ground  on  which 
you  are  presently  going  to  see  pictures  ;  and  built  on  it  their 
cloister,  dedicated  also  to  St.  Mary  of  Charity ;  and  over 
the  gate  of  it,  by  which  you  are  going  to  enter,  put  St. 
Mary  of  Charity,  as  they  best  could  get  her  carved,  next 
year,  1345  :  and  so  you  have  her  there,  with  cowled  mem- 
bers of  the  confraternity  kneeling  to  her;  happy  angels 
fluttering  about  her;  the  dark  blue  of  her  eyes  not  yet 
utterly  faded  from  them.  Blue-eyed  as  Athena  she, — the 
Greek  tradition  yet  prevailing  to  that  extent, — a  perfect 
type,  the  whole  piece  of  purest  central  Fourteenth  Cen- 
turv  Gothic  thought  and  work,  untouched  and  indubitable 
of  date,  being  inscribed  below  its  bracket  cornice, 

MCCCXLV.  I  Lo  Tkmpo  De  Mrs 
Marcho  Zulian  fo  fato  Sto  Lavurilr 

To-wit — "  1345^    in  the  time"  (of   the    Guardianship) 
"of  Messcr  Mark  Julian,  was  made  this  laboured  thing." 


196  THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS 

And  all  seemed  to  bid  fair  for  Venice  and  her  sacred 
schools  ;  Heaven  surely  pleased  with  these  her  endeavours, 
and  laboured  things. 

Yes,  with  these,  and  such  other,  I  doubt  not.  But  other 
things,  it  seems,  had  been  done  in  Venice,  with  which 
Heaven  was  not  pleased ;  assuming  always  that  there  is  a 
Heaven,  for  otherwise — what  followed  was  of  course  only 
process  of  Darwinian  development.  But  this  was  what 
followed.  That  Madonna,  with  her  happy  angels  and 
humble  worshippers,  was  carved  as  you  see  her,  over  the 
Scuola  cloister  door, — in  1345.  And  "  on  the  25th  of  Janu- 
ary, 1347,^  on  the  day,  to-wit,  of  the  conversion  of  St. 
Paul,  about  the  hour  of  vespers,  there  came  a  great  earth- 
quake in  Venice,  and  as  it  were  in  all  the  world ;  and  fell 
many  tops  of  bell-towers,  and  houses,  and  chimneys,  and 
the  church  of  St.  Basil :  and  there  was  so  great  fear  that 
all  the  people  thought  to  die.  And  the  earth  ceased  not  to 
tremble  for  about  forty  days ;  and  when  it  remained  quiet, 
there  came  a  great  mortality,  and  the  people  died  of  various 
evil.  And  the  people  were  in  so  great  fear  that  father 
would  not  go  to  visit  son,  nor  son  father.  And  this  death 
lasted  about  six  months ;  and  it  was  said  commonly  that 
there  died  two  parts  out  of  three,  of  all  the  people  of 
Venice." 

These  words  you   may  read,  (in  Venetian  dialect),  after 

you  have  entered  the  gate  beneath  the  Madonna  j  they  are 

engraved  under  the  Gothic  arch  on  your  right  hand  ;  with 

other  like  words,  telling  the  various  horror  of  that  Plague  ; 

'  1348,  in  our  present  calendar. 


THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS  I97 

and  how  the  guardian  of  the  Scuola  died  by  it,  and  about 
ten  of  his  officers  with  him,  and  three  hundred  of  the 
brethren. 

Above  the  inscription,  two  angels  hold  the  symbol  of  the 
Scuola;  carved,  as  you  see  conspicuously  also  on  the  outer 
sculptures  in  various  places;  and  agam  on  the  well  in  the 
midst  of  the  cloister.  The  first  sign  this,  therefore,  of  all 
chosen  by  the  greater  schools  of  Venice,  of  which,  as 
aforesaid,  "  The  first  was  that  of  St.  Alary  of  Charity, 
which  school  has  its  wax  candles  red,  in  sign  that  Charity 
should  be  glowing ;  and  has  for  its  bearing  a  yellow " 
(meaning  golden)  "  cross,  traversing  two  little  circles  also 
yellow ;  with  red  and  green  quartering  the  parts  which  the 
cross  describes, — those  who  instituted  such  sign  desiring  to 
show  thereby  the  union  that  Charity  should  have  with 
Faith  and  Hope." 

The  golden  "  anchored "  cross  stands  for  Faith,  the 
golden  outer  circle  for  Charity,  the  golden  inner  for  Hope 
— all  on  field  quartered  gules  and  vert,  the  colours  of 
Charity  and  Hope. 

Such  the  first  symbol  of  Venetian  Brotherhoods, — in 
reading  which,  I  delay  you,  that  you  may  be  better  pre- 
pared to  understand  the  symbolism  running  through  every 
sign  and  colour  in  Venetian  art  at  this  time,  down  even  to 
its  tinting  of  wax  candles;  art  which  was  indeed  all  the 
more  symbolic  for  being  rude,  and  complicated  much  with 
the  use  of  signals  and  heraldries  at  sea,  too  distant  for  any 
art  in  them  to  be  visible,  but  serviceably  intelligible  in 
meaning. 


198  THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS 

How  far  the  great  Scuola  and  cloisters  of  the  Carita,  for 
monks  and  confraternity  together,  reached  from  the  gate 
under  which  you  are  pausing,  you  may  see  in  Diirer's 
woodcut  of  the  year  1500  (Correr  Museum),  which  gives 
the  apse  with  attached  chapels  j  and  the  grand  double 
cloister  reaching  back  nearly  to  the  Giudecca;  a  water- 
wheel — as  I  suppose — outside,  on  the  (now  filled  up  and 
paved)  canal,  moved  by  the  tide,  for  molinary  work  in  the 
kitchens.  Of  all  which  nothing  now  remains  but  these 
pillars  and  beams,  between  you  and  the  gallery  staircase ; 
and  the  well  with  two  brothers  on  each  side  holding  their 
Stemma,  a  fine  free-hand  piece  of  rough  living  work.  You 
will  not,  I  think,  find  that  you  have  ill-spent  your  hour  of 
rest  when  you  now  return  into  the  Carpaccio  room,  where 
we  will  look  first,  please,  at  No.  IV.  (549),  in  which  many 
general  points  are  better  shown  than  in  the  rest. 

Here  is  the  great  King  of  ideal  England,  under  an 
octagonal  temple  of  audience ;  all  the  scene  being  meant  to 
show  the  conditions  of  a  state  in  perfect  power  and  pros- 
perity. 

A  state,  therefore,  that  is  at  once  old  and  young ;  that 
has  had  a  history  for  centuries  past,  and  will  have  one  for 
centuries  to  come. 

Ideal,  founded  mainly  on  the  Venice  of  his  own  day  ; 
mingled  a  little  with  thoughts  of  great  Rome,  and  of  great 
antagonist  Genoa :  but,  in  all  spirit  and  hope,  the  Venice 
of  1480-1500  is  here  living  before  you.  And  now,  there- 
fore, you  can  see  at  once  what  she  meant  by  a  "  Campo," 
allowing  for  the  conventional  manner  of  representing  grass. 


THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS  I99 

which  of  course  at  first  you  will  laugh  at ;  but  which  is  by 
no  means  deserving  of  your  contempt.  Any  hack  draughts- 
man of  Dalziel's  can  sketch  for  you,  or  any  member  of  the 
Water-colour  or  Dudley  Societies  dab  for  you,  in  ten  min- 
utes, a  field  of  hay  that  you  would  fancy  you  could  mow, 
and  make  cocks  of.  But  this  green  ground  of  Carpaccio's, 
with  inplanted  flowers  and  tufts  of  grass,  is  traditional  from 
the  first  Greek-Christian  mosaics,  and  is  an  entirely  syste- 
matic ornamental  ground,  and  to  be  understood  as  such, 
primarily,  and  as  grass  only  symbolically.  Careless  indeed, 
more  than  is  usual  with  him — much  spoiled  and  repainted 
also ;  but  quite  clear  enough  in  expression  for  us  of  the 
orderliness  and  freshness  of  a  Venetian  campo  in  the  great 
times  J  garden  and  city  you  see  mingled  inseparably,  the 
wild  strawberry  growing  at  the  steps  of  the  king's  court  of 
justice,  and  their  marble  sharp  and  bright  out  of  the  turf. 
Clean  everything,  and  pure  j — no  cigars  in  anybody's 
poisoned  mouth, — no  voiding  of  perpetual  excrement  of 
saliva  on  the  precious  marble  or  living  flowers.  Perfect 
peace  and  befittingness  of  behaviour  in  all  men  and 
creatures.  Your  very  monkey  in  repose,  perfect  in  his 
mcdi;eval  dress;  the  Darwinian  theory  in  all  its  sacredncss, 
breadth,  divinity  and  sagacity, — but  reposeful,  not  venturing 
to  thrust  itself  into  political  council.  Crowds  on  the  bridges 
and  quays,  but  untumultuous,  close  set  as  beds  of  flowers, 
richly  decorative  in  their  mass,  and  a  beautiful  mosaic  of 
men,  and  of  black,  red,  blue,  and  golden  bonnets.  Ruins, 
indeed,  among  the  prosperity ;  but  glorious  ones  ; — not 
shells  of  abandoned  speculation,  but   remnants   of  mighty 


200  THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS 

State  long  ago,  now  restored  to  nature's  peace ;  the  arches 
of  the  first  bridge  the  city  had  built,  broken  down  by  storm, 
yet  what  was  left  of  them  spared  for  memory's  sake.  (So 
stood  for  a  little  while,  a  few  years  ago,  the  broken  Ponte- 
a-Mare  at  Pisa;  so  at  Rome,  for  ages,  stood  the  Ponte 
Rotto,  till  the  engineers  and  modern  mob  got  at  it,  making 
what  was  in  my  youth  the  most  lovely  and  holy  scene  in 
Rome,  now  a  place  where  a  swineherd  could  not  stand 
without  holding  his  nose,  and  which  no  woman  can 
stop  at.) 

But  here,  the  old  arches  are  covered  with  sweet  weeds, 
like  native  rock,  and  (for  once  !)  reflected  a  little  in  the 
pure  water  under  the  meadowy  hills.  Much  besides  of 
noteworthy,  if  you  are  yourself  worthy  of  noting  it,  you 
may  find  in  this  lovely  distance.  But  the  picture,  it  may 
be  complained,  seems  for  the  most  part — distance,  architec- 
ture, and  scattered  crowd ;  while  of  foreground  objects,  we 
have  principally  cloaks,  and  very  curiously  thin  legs.  ^ 
Well,  yes, — the  distance  is  indeed  the  prettiest  part  of  this 
picture ;  and  since,  in  modern  art  and  drama,  we  have  been 
accustomed,  for  anatomical  and  other  reasons,  to  depend  on 
nothing  else  but  legs,  I  admit  the  supply  of  legs  to  be  here 
scanty,  and  even  of  brachial,  pectoral,  and  other  admirable 
muscles.  If  you  choose  to  look  at  the  faces  instead,  you 
will  find  something  in  them ;  nevertheless,  Carpaccio  has 
been,  on  the  whole  playing  with  himself  and  us,  in  his 
treatment  of  this  subject.     For  Carpaccio  is,  in  the  most 

*  Not  in  the  least  unnaturally  thin,  however,  in  the  forms  of  persons  of 
sedentary  life. 


THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS  201 

vital  and  conclusive  sense,  a  man  of  genius,  who  will  not 
at  all  supply  you,  nor  can  in  the  least  supply  himself,  with 
sublimity  and  pathos  to  order  ;  but  is  sublime,  or  delight- 
ful, or  sometimes  dull,  or  frequently  grotesque,  as  Heaven 
wills  it ;  or — profane  persons  will  say, — as  the  humour 
takes  him.  And  his  humour  here  has  been  dominant. 
For  since  much  depends  on  the  answer  brought  back  from 
St.  Ursula,  besides  the  young  Prince's  happiness,  one 
should  have  thought,  the  return  of  the  embassy  might  have 
been  represented  in  a  loftier  manner.  But  only  two  of  the 
ambassadors  are  herej  the  King  is  occupied  in  hearing  a 
cause  which  will  take  long, — (see  how  gravely  his  minister 
is  reading  over  the  documents  in  question) ; — meantime 
the  young  prince,  impatient  going  down  the  steps  of  the 
throne,  makes  his  own  private  inquiries,  proudly:  "Your 
embassy  has,  I  trust,  been  received,  gentlemen,  with  a  just 
understanding  of  our  diplomatic  relations  ?  "  "Your  Royal 
Highness,"  the  lowly  and  gravely  bowing  principal  am- 
bassador replies,  "  must  yourself  be  the  only  fitting  judge  of 
that  matter,  on  fully  hearing  our  report."  Meantime,  the 
charge  d'affaires  holds  St.  Ursula's  answer— behind  his 
back. 

A  piece  of  play,  very  nearly,  the  whole  picture  ;  a 
painter  living  in  the  midst  of  a  prosperous  city,  happy  in 
his  own  power,  cntirclv  believing  in  God,  and  in  the 
saints,  and  in  eternal  life  ;  and,  at  intervals,  bending  his 
whole  soul  to  the  expression  of  most  deep  and  holy 
tragcdv, — such  a  man  needs  must  have  his  times  of  play  ; 
which   Carpaccio   takes,  in   his  work.     Another  man,  in- 


202  THE  ENGLISH  AMBASSADORS 

Stead  of  painting  this  piece  with  its  monkey,  and  its  little 
fiddler,  and  its  jesting  courtiers,  would  have  played  some 
ape-tricks  of  his  own, — spent  an  hour  or  two  among  literal 
fiddlers,  and  living  courtiers.  Carpaccio  is  not  heard  of 
among  such — amuses  himself  still  with  pencil  in  hand,  and 
us  also,  pleasantly,  for  a  little  while. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  DIADEM 

{Raphad) 

F.  A.  GRUYER 

THE  Madonna  of  the  Diadem  is  a  little  later  than  the 
Aldobrandini  Madonna.  Supposing  that  the  latter 
was  painted  in  15 lo  or  1511,  we  may  with  great  probabil- 
ity give  the  date  151 2  to  the  other.  In  these  two  pictures 
the  figures  are  of  almost  the  same  dimensions ;  but  from 
the  first  to  the  second  they  sensibly  gain  in  idea  as  they  do 
in  style.  The  picture  of  the  Aldobrandini  House  showed 
them  only  at  half  length  and  in  a  private  dwelling  ;  more- 
over they  dealt  with  individual  and  incidental  circumstances, 
and  the  Virgin,  in  whom  we  might  almost  recognize  a  por- 
trait, only  reached  the  ideal  by  means  of  an  inner  sentiment. 
In  the  Madonna  of  the  Diadem^  these  figures  assume  more 
picturesque  independence  and  at  the  same  time  recover  the 
universality  of  their  moral  significance.  They  appear  entire, 
living  and  moving  freely  in  the  open  air,  under  the  hori- 
zons of  the  Eternal  City,  in  the  dazzling  light  of  the 
Roman  Campagna,  and  manifesting  the  affection  of  their 
souls  in  the  presence  of  nature  and  ages  marvellously  inter- 
preted by  Raphael's  genius.  In  the  Madonna  of  the  Dia- 
dtm^  Raphael  has  again  taken  up  the  motive  that  he  had 
already  cssavcd  at  Florence  in  the  Aladonna  of  the  Veil. 
Only,  by   compressing  his  idea  into  a  narrower  frame,  he 


204  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  DIADEM 

has  summarized  it  under  a  form  the  eloquence  of  which  he 
had  not  suspected  in  1508.  The  Virgin  has  made  of  her 
shawl  a  bed  for  the  Infant  Jesus  to  sleep  on.  In  prayer, 
she  watches  over  the  slumbers  of  her  Son,  and,  carefully 
lifting  the  veil  that  protected  the  infant,  she  gazes  fixedly 
at  this  divine  beauty ;  she  adores  it  but  is  not  at  all 
amazed  at  it,  and  remains  calm  and  silent.  The  little 
St.  John,  on  the  contrary,  allows  his  joy  and  admiration  to 
break  out,  and  pressing  close  against  Mary,  seems  to  want 
to  spring  towards  Jesus.  Such  is  this  picture,  which  the 
masters  before  Raphael,  about  him,  and  after  him,  have  re- 
peated everywhere,  and  which  here  attains  its  most  complete 
expression. 

So  the  Infant  Jesus  is  reposing  upon  the  Virgin's  shawl, 
and  upon  this  blue  drapery  his  body  assumes  an  extraordi- 
nary splendour.  Nature  is  observed  quite  closely.  The 
Son  of  God  is  at  the  same  time  the  Son  of  Man,  and  if  he 
beams  with  a  divine  brightness  he  yet  satisfies  all  the  human 
conditions  of  harmony  and  sensible  beauty.  Seated  rather 
than  reclining,  with  his  loins  supported  by  the  folds  of  the 
vesture,  his  legs  slightly  spread  apart  and  his  left  arm  fall- 
ing down  along  his  body,  Jesus  shows  himself  facing  us 
so  that  we  may  lose  none  of  his  traits.  Transparent  shad- 
ows lightly  caress  him  through  the  white  glow  that  envelops 
him.  What  delicacy,  notably  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the 
veil  over  the  right  forearm !  He  slumbers  in  tranquillity, 
but  his  spirit  watches  and  illumines  his  pensive  and  grave 
face.  His  short  blond  hair  looks  like  the  rays  of  an  aureole 
gleaming  upon  his  broadly  cut    brow.     His    lowered  lids 


M  Al.w,  -.A     "1       1  III.     M  \  I'l.M. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  DIADEM  205 

cover  his  eyes  whence  the  tears  of  love  are  soon  to  flow  ; 
his  mouth,  of  severe  lines,  although  silent,  seems  already 
accentuating  itself  for  austere  words;  and,  in  this  sleeping 
infant  wc  recognize  Him  who  one  day  shall  dispense  mercy 
and  justice.  It  is  the  sleep  of  a  God  who  must  die  in  or- 
der to  ransom  us  from  Death.  We  arc  before  ore  of  those 
marvellous  figures  that  we  have  already  seen  in  the  arms  of 
the  \'irgin,  and  who  is  now  going  to  manifest  himself  with 
still  greater  splendour  in  company  with  the  little  St.  John. 
A  grieving  shadow  hovers  over  this  divine  infant,  and, 
without  robbing  him  of  any  of  his  calm  beauty,  impresses 
upon  him  something  of  grandeur  that  attracts  our  souls  and 
commands  adoration. 

The  Virgin,  in  fact,  is  adoring  the  Saviour,  and  from  this 
adoration  she  draws  strength  and  peace.  Kneeling,  or 
rather  sitting  on  her  legs  doubled  up  under  her,  she  stretches 
out  her  right  arm  towards  Jesus  and  lifts  the  veil  with  her 
right  hand,  while  she  puts  her  left  arm  and  hand  about  St. 
John  and  draws  him  lovingly  towards  her.  What  pre- 
cautions, what  respect  and  what  simplicity  are  contained  in 
the  gesture  with  which  Mary  uncovers  the  Son  of  God  ! 
What  tenderness  and  gentle  familiarity  are  in  the  move- 
ment that  draws  the  Forerunner  to  her!  But  what  is  in- 
describable in  this  picture  and  suffices  to  lift  us  above  the 
earth  is  the  unmixed  purity  in  this  Virgin  face.  The  head 
bending  towards  Jesus  is  almost  in  profile  to  the  left.  The 
brow  is  high  without  being  excessively  so.  The  hair, 
parted  in  bands  and  raised  above  the  cars,  leaves  the  temples 
bare  and  is  arranged  in  thick  masses  at  the  back  of  the  head 


206  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  DIADEM 

and   down   the   neck.       It  is  crowned   by   a  blue  diadem; 
and  from  this  diadem  falls  a  veil,  or  rather  a  drapery,  down 
the  back,  covering  the  shoulders,  enveloping  the  left  arm, 
and  forming  the  background  on  which  the  contours  of  the 
head    and    torso    are  outlined.     The  eyes  lowered   on  the 
Redeemer   contemplate    Him  without   astonishment :   they 
know  what  they  see  and,  by  simplicity,  they  make  us  com- 
prehend it  also.     "  Mary  loved  her  divine  Son  as  a  mother, 
but  she  also  loved   Him  as  a  Virgin  :  she  considered  Jesus 
Christ  as  a  flower  put  forth  by  her  integrity."     It  is  with 
this  sentiment  that  she  gazes  at  Him  with  more  than  motherly 
eyes,  since  they  are  the  eyes  of  a  virgin  mother.     All  her 
features,  nose  and  mouth,  chin  and  curve  of  the  cheeks,  are 
of  such  purity  of  line  as  to  set  aside  every  comparison  and 
defy  every  model.     The  robing  of  this  figure  is  exquisite, 
although  very  simple.     A  robe,  rose  in  the  high  lights  and 
red  in  the  shadows,  envelops  the  whole  body,  leaving  bare 
the   neck  down  to  the  beginning  of  the  shoulders.     The 
sleeves   reach   to   the  wrist;    and   a   simple  yellow  border 
ornaments  the  top  of  the  bodice.     Over  this  robe,  a  blue 
tunic,  caught  at  the  right  shoulder  and  tied  to  the  body, 
passes  across  the  breast  transversely,  covering  the  left  side 
of  it,  and  falls  to  the  ground,  almost  entirely  concealing  the 
lower  limbs,  the  red  robe  only  being  visible  on  the  left  leg. 
Does  this  vestment  conform  to  the  taste  of  the  antique,  or 
does  it  really  belong  to  Sanzio's  day  ?     I  do  not  know.     It 
bears  in  the  highest  degree  the  imprint  of  a  grand  style,  and 
If  it  belongs  to  Sixteenth  Century  life,  it  also  comes  from 
Classical  tradition.     Moreover,  what   could   be   more  ele- 


THE   MADONNA  OF   THE   DIADEM  20/ 

mentary  ?  Nothing  in  the  form  is  laboured  and  there  is 
nothing  startling  in  the  tones;  but  everything  in  it  con- 
tributes to  harmony.  Red,  blue  and  yellow  mingle  their 
individual  notes  in  a  perfect  chord.  The  blue  tunic  sub- 
mits to  the  influence  of  the  vicinity  of  the  red  robe:  it 
shades  into  lilac  in  the  high  lights  and  into  violet  in 
the  shadows ;  and  the  bright  yellow  drapery  that  falls 
from  the  blue  diadem,  as  it  touches  the  left  shoulder  as- 
sumes the  transparency  of  a  white  veil.  In  this  V^irgin, 
Raphael  did  not  copy  any  living  reality  :  he  took  his  ideal 
from  the  depths  of  his  soul.  He  knew  that  the  V^irgin 
is  the  most  beautiful  as  well  as  the  most  holy  of  living 
creatures,  and  that  from  the  flowers  of  the  field  to  the 
seraphim  nothing  is  so  beautiful  as  she;  that  above  her 
there  is  only  the  infinite  and  creative  Beautiful  that  was  the 
fruit  of  her  virginity.  He  knew  this,  and  he  has  expressed 
it  as  no  one  else  ever  did  and  as  nobody  after  him  ever  will. 
The  little  St.  John  reflects  a  more  human  but  not  less 
religious  poetic  idea.  Kneeling  beside  the  Virgin,  and 
leaning  his  right  arm  against  her,  he  joins  his  hands  in 
ecstasy  in  the  presence  of  the  Saviour.  His  limbs  are  ro- 
bust and  he  has  strong  flesh  colours.  In  him  we  see  the 
germ  of  a  man  created  for  struggle  and  for  the  truth.  His 
head,  covered  with  abundant  chestnut  hair,  is  in  left  pro- 
file. At  the  sight  of  Jesus,  the  heart  of  the  Forerunner 
leaps  with  love,  overflows  and  breaks  out  in  joyous  accents. 
**  He  that  loveth  not,  knoweth  not  God  :  for  God  is  love." 
His  fixed,  brilliant  eyes  seem  to  be  da/./led  by  the  splendour 
of  the  divine  beauty.      His   lips   part  and  eni't  cries  of  ad- 


208  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  DIADEM 

miration.  An  unmixed  fervour  animates  and  transfigures 
this  child,  who  in  anticipation  enjoys  the  ecstasy  of  the 
saints.  Nevertheless  he  belongs  to  the  earth,  and  his  en- 
tirely human  sentiment  explodes  in  an  accidental,  unforeseen, 
transitory  and  almost  noisy  manner.  It  is  not  so  with  the 
Virgin,  who,  while  living  this  mortal  life,  was  marked  from 
the  beginning  to  be  the  sanctuary  of  sanctity.  She  is  inac- 
cessible to  astonishment,  because  ecstasy  is  constant  in  her; 
as  is  purity,  submission,  humility  and  sacrifice.  St.  John, 
on  the  contrary,  who  "  was  not  the  light,"  but  "  the  lamp 
that  burneth  and  shineth,"  according  to  the  Saviour's  ex- 
pression, is  almost  fascinated  by  the  splendour  of  Christ, 
and  it  is  with  high  rapture  that  his  eyes  are  fixed  upon 
Jesus.  This  therefore  is  the  relation  that  unites  the  three 
personages  in  this  picture.  The  Infant  Jesus  is  "  the  true 
light  that  lighteth  every  man  coming  into  the  world."  The 
Virgin  is  thoroughly  penetrated  with  this  light  because  she 
has  conceived  and  borne  it.  Finally,  in  the  little  St.  John 
the  Baptist,  "  the  light  shineth  in  the  darkness,"  but  this 
darkness  is  illuminated  by  it  "  so  that  we  may  understand 
that  if  the  Forerunner  shows  Jesus  Christ  to  the  world,  it 
is  by  the  light  that  he  receives  from  Jesus  Christ  Himself." 
To  complete  this  picture,  Raphael  has  evoked  the  natural 
scenery,  the  ruins  and  the  memories  of  Rome.  The  im- 
provised bed  of  Jesus  is  backed  up  against  a  forgotten  block 
of  stone  in  the  foreground  of  the  landscape.  Then  come 
substructures  which  like  dismantled  ramparts  are  succeeded 
by  half  fallen  arches  and  vaults.  Vegetation,  which  is  the 
life  of  ruins,  has  invaded  these  glorious  fragments.     Threi; 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  DIADEM  209 

little  human  figures  appear  in  the  distance  as  if  to  accent 
the  disproportion  that  exists  between  the  stature  of  man  and 
the  proud  grandeur  of  his  views.  On  the  right,  rises  a 
solid  and  sombre  flank  of  wall  that,  with  the  ruins  on  the 
opposite  side,  serves  to  frame  the  apparition  that  presents 
itself  at  the  back  of  the  picture.  There  mount  one  above 
another  the  palaces,  thermae,  basilicas  and  visions  of  the 
past  mingled  with  the  dreams  of  the  future,  and  farther  ofF, 
towards  the  horizon,  the  high  mountains  covered  with  the 
eternal  snows.  What  a  lovely  country  !  What  passionate 
admiration  it  arouses  in  us  !  How  we  love  it !  This  is 
because  in  Rome  and  her  surroundings,  to  delight,  move 
and  subjugate  us,  there  is  more  than  the  beauty  of  line, 
more  than  the  combined  harmony  of  the  heavens  and  the 
earth,  there  are  the  majesty  and  the  history  of  thirty  centuries 
that  have  rolled  away.  Poor  Italy  !  how  she  has  suffered  ! 
What  carnage  !  what  blood  !  what  tears !  And  yet,  from 
the  heart  of  all  these  ruins,  from  the  midst  of  the  extinct 
embers  of  so  many  successive  generations,  eternal  hope 
always  springs  up.  There  it  is  alive,  religious,  poetic  and 
charming  in  the  figures  of  the  Word,  the  Virgin  and  St. 
John.  The  colour  of  the  sicy  dominates  this  picture 
throughout.  The  drapery  upon  which  the  Saviour  is  re- 
posing is  blue;  the  Virgin's  diadem  is  also  blue;  Mary's 
blue  tunic  almost  extinguishes  the  red  in  her  robe;  and 
finally  the  atmosphere  that  bathes  the  city  and  the  horizon 
is  entirely  blue.  The  whole  creation  seems  to  be  rejoicing 
in  this  ideal  light  that  penetrates  all  things  and  yet  has  noth- 
ing wounding  in  its  brightness. 


PORTRAIT  OF  AN  OLD  WOMAN 

(^Rembrandt) 

6mILE  MICHEL 

THE  fine  portrait,  of  which  an  excellent  reproduction 
is  given  here,  belongs  to  the  Museum  of  the  Her- 
mitage, where  it  was  entered  in  1771,  with  the  Crozat  col- 
lection acquired  at  this  time  by  order  of  the  Empress 
Catherine  H.  through  the  agency  of  Diderot.  For  a  long 
time  this  portrait  was  called  that  of  Rembrandt's  mother; 
the  new  catalogue  that  appeared  in  1895,  written  under  the 
care  of  M.  Somof,  the  learned  and  conscientious  director 
of  the  Hermitage,  has  rendered  justice  to  this  purely  gratui- 
tous denomination.  They  were  accustomed  in  the  last 
century  to  these  more  or  less  fantastic  titles,  which,  they 
believed  at  that  time,  bestowed  an  additional  interest  and 
value  upon  the  picture.  Therefore,  in  many  collections 
you  still  meet  with  a  whole  series  of  portraits,  for  which,  if 
we  may  believe  the  catalogues,  Rembrandt's  nurse,  his 
coachman,  his  cook  and  his  maitre  ct hotel  posed.  Rem- 
brandt, it  is  true,  did  not  neglect  using  the  models  that  were 
about  him  and,  without  mentioning  himself,  his  brushes 
were  exercised  in  turn  upon  his  parents,  his  sister,  his 
brothers,  Saskia,  his  first  wife,  and  Hendrickje  Jaghers,  the 
faithful  companion  of  his  old  age,  his  friends  and  his  kins- 
men.    But  the  numerous  authentic  portraits  of  his  mother, 


l-iilMKAII      <>l       AS     ol.li     W.iMAS 


KKMIlllAMiT 


PORTRAIT  OF  AN  OLD  WOMAN  211 

engraved  or  painted  by  the  master  in  his  youth,  oppose  in 
a  positive  fashion  the  appellation  formerly  attributed  to  the 
picture  in  the  Hermitage,  which  bears,  moreover,  with 
Rembrandt's  signature,  the  date  1654.  However,  the  per- 
son represented  certainly  was  one  of  the  persons  that  be- 
longed to  the  artist's  intimate  life,  for,  in  the  same  museum 
in  Saint  Petersburg,  three  other  portraits  made  by  him  in 
the  same  period,  another  of  almost  equal  worth  and  in  ex- 
cellent preservation  which  is  in  the  iMoltke  gallery  in  Co- 
penhagen, and  finally  a  fifth  quite  damaged  which  is  in  the 
Musee  d'Epinal, — it  came  from  the  collection  of  the 
Comtes  de  Salm — show  us  also  the  features  of  the  same  old 
woman,  in  whom  we  may  perhaps  see  Hendrickje's  mother, 
or  some  one  of  his  relatives,  who  according  to  his  native 
kindness,  Rembrandt  had  at  this  time  welcomed  to  his  hearth. 
But  no  matter  how  this  may  be,  if  the  name  of  the 
model  has  not  been  fixed  upon,  the  opinion  regarding  the 
worth  of  the  picture  is  unanimous.  Artists  and  critics 
agree  in  recognizing  it  as  one  of  the  master's  chefs  (Toe uvre. 
To  judge  from  the  simplicity  of  her  costume,  the  person  is 
in  a  very  modest  condition,  and  neither  her  type  nor  her 
pose  is  designed  to  attract  our  attention.  Seen  almost  in 
full  face  and  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  with  folded  hands,  the 
good  dame  is  clothed  in  a  reddish  dress  upon  which  is 
thrown  a  brown  cape ;  a  white  fichu  covers  her  breast  and 
a  black  hood  throws  a  strong  and  transparent  shadow  upon 
her  forehead.  Her  poor  withered  and  drawn  features,  her 
wrinkled  skin,  her  wearied  and  sunken  eyes  would  not  seem 
to  offer  any  great  picturesque  resources  to  the  artist.     One 


212  PORTRAIT  OF  AN  OLD  WOMAN 

does  not,  however,  dream  of  asking  him  how  with  such  or- 
dinary materials,  he  has  known  how  to  produce  a  work 
which  attracts  and  deeply  moves  us. 

The  magic  of  Rembrandt's  brush  has  transformed  this 
humble  model ;  and  the  simplicity  of  the  pose,  the  strength 
and  suppleness  of  the  composition,  the  largeness  of  the 
modelling,  and  above  all  the  frankness  and  nobility  of  ex- 
pression attest  the  full  maturity  of  the  master.  To  see  this 
manner  of  consulting  nature,  at  once  so  respectful  and  free, 
one  feels,  in  reality,  that  at  this  moment  of  his  career  he 
was  in  the  full  strength  of  his  talent  and  the  complete  pos- 
session of  his  genius.  About  forty-eight  years  of  age,  liv- 
ing in  retreat,  and  entirely  for  his  art,  he  enjoyed,  without 
having  to  share  with  any  one,  the  only  pleasures  that  had 
value  in  his  eyes :  the  satisfaction  of  an  opinionated  work 
and  the  love  of  his  home ;  thus  by  the  side  of  a  wife  who 
was  entirely  devoted  to  him,  he  could  satisfy  his  mania  for 
collecting  and  amassing,  in  true  prodigality,  those  objects 
of  art  and  curiosity  which  made  his  delight,  but  which, 
after  his  downfall,  were  soon  dispersed.  Indifferent  to 
criticism,  which  thenceforth  was  not  spared  to  him,  he 
never  cared  much  about  public  opinion.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  rare  friends  who  remained  faithful  to  him,  he 
did  not  have  much  to  do  with  his  contemporaries;  and  he 
isolated  himself  more  and  more  from  his  associates.  When, 
in  the  very  year  that  he  painted  this  portrait,  in  the  month 
of  October,  1654,  the  members  had  reconstructed  the  guild 
of  Saint-Luke,  he  withdrew  himself,  and  his  name  never  ap- 
pears upon  the  lists  of  that  association. 


PORTRAIT  OF  AN   OLD  WOMAN  213 

Holland  was  not  then  lacking  in  distinguished  portrait 
painters,  and  the  qualities  of  a  penetrating  observation  and 
deep  sincerity  in  the  studv  of  nature  which  characterize  her 
school  found  their  best  employment  in  this  branch  of  art. 
After  Schoorel  and  after  Antonio  More,  who,  truly  speak- 
ing, was  a  cosmopolitan,  one  saw  a  rich  blossoming  of 
masters  such  as  Ravesteijn  and  Frans  Hals,  at  the  Hague 
and  Haarlem;  also  in  Amsterdam,  the  names  of  Jacobsz, 
Cornelis  Teunissen,  Dirk  Barentsen  and  Ketel ;  and  soon 
after  them  those  of  C.  Van  der  Voort,  Van  Valckert  and 
Nicolas  Elias,  were  justly  celebrated.  But  all  had  disap- 
peared, and  Thomas  de  Keyser,  with  whom  Rembrandt  had 
formerly  disputed  his  vogue,  painted  nothing  but  little  can- 
vases. Bartholomew  Van  der  Heist  was  at  that  time  the 
most  conspicuous  portrait-painter.  By  his  absolute  correct- 
ness and  his  exceeding  scrupulousness  regarding  like- 
nesses, he  pleased  more  than  Rembrandt  the  reigning  taste 
which  was  inclining  more  and  more  towards  a  clearer, 
more  equal  and  more  sedate  style  of  painting  than 
his.  To  satisfy  these  preferences  of  the  amateurs,  Rem- 
brandt's pupils  themselves,  Govert  Flinck  and  Ferdinand 
Bol,  seemed  to  abandon  their  first  manner  so  that  they 
might  attain  as  nearly  as  possible  to  that  of  Van  Dyck. 

If,  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  Rembrandt  had  reason  to 
be  wounded  by  the  neglect  in  which  he  was  gradually 
left,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  brought  it  upon  himself 
somewhat  by  the  strangeness  of  his  fantastic  and  even  sav- 
age moods.  Incapable  of  accommodating  himself  to  the 
caprices  of  fashion,   he   would   not  submit  to  the  slightest 


214  PORTRAIT  OF  AN  OLD  WOMAN 

constraint,  and  away  from  the  beaten  paths,  he  agreed  to 
give  free  play  to  the  aspirations  of  his  ardent  nature,  with- 
out any  other  concern  than  that  of  satisfying  himself.  He 
did  not  then  suffer  so  very  much  from  a  neglect  which  al- 
lowed him  to  recover  his  entire  independence.  Choosing, 
therefore,  his  own  subjects  and  models,  he  was  free  to  pur- 
sue at  his  own  pleasure,  those  disinterested  studies,  to  which 
he  gave  himself  unremittingly,  even  in  old  age  and  misery. ' 
Thenceforth,  also,  he  understood  what  a  fecund  and  new 
element  he  could  make  with  the  chiaroscuro.  Many 
others,  before  him,  had  tried  to  find  in  the  play  of  light  and 
shadow  the  opportunity  for  piquant  and  unexpected  prob- 
lems ;  but  none  of  his  predecessors  had  thought  of  making 
the  chiaroscuro  an  intimate  expression  of  life  and  in  put- 
ting, for  which  we  must  thank  him,  the  salient  features  of 
a  composition  or  figure  in  full  evidence  by  subordinating 
the  details  according  to  their  respective  importance  and  in 
such  a  way  as  to  allow  only  the  most  significant  ones  to 
dominate. 

With  a  thorough  display  of  drawing  and  perfect  correct- 
ness of  modelling,  the  portrait  of  the  old  woman  in  the 
Hermitage  possesses  this  superior  charm  of  intimacy  which 
belongs  to  Rembrandt  only.  He  alone  has  known  how  to 
put  with  such  penetration  into  the  physiognomy,  and  above 
all  into  the  gaze  of  his  portraits,  those  mysterious  reflections 
of  the  inner  life  that  form  the  individu^-pcrsonality  of 
each  human  being.  This  depth  of  moral  sentiment  he  has 
expressed  beyond  all  in  certain  portraits  of  old  people,  and 
of  these  he  painted  a  great  number. 


PORTRAIT   OF  AN   OLD  WOMAN  215 

At  the  beginning  of  his  career,  and  when  he  had  scarcely 
arrived  in  Amsterdam,  in  a  trice  and  for  a  brief  time  he 
was  the  favourite  of  fashion.  Young,  and  elegant  women, 
great  personages,  statesmen,  physicians,  ministers  of  differ- 
ent cults,  and  rich  merchants  came  with  the  desire  of 
posing  in  his  studio.  But,  even  at  the  height  of  his  vogue, 
he  reserved  for  himself  the  pleasure  of  satisfying  his  tastes, 
by  choosing  from  the  most  modest  conditions  those  types  of 
models  that  fascinated  him.  Sandrart,  who  was  a  gentle- 
man and  took  pleasure  in  intercourse  with  the  great,  has 
reproached  Rembrandt  for  seeking  the  society  of  humble 
people.  The  master  had  as  much  horror  of  the  gross 
pleasures  of  some  of  his  associates  as  he  had  of  the  frivo- 
lous banality  of  the  worldly.  But  he  felt  drawn  to  those 
simple  and  loyal  souls  who,  away  from  polite  customs  and 
even  good  society,  knew  how  to  preserve  their  moral 
dignity  under  the  most  modest  conditions.  He  loved  to 
discern  their  features  and  to  express  in  those  images  which 
he  has  shown  us  that  natural  grandeur  and  nobility  in  a 
human  face  which  show  self-respect  and  the  good  use  of  life. 
It  was  by  frequenting  this  humble  society  that  the  master 
discovered  some  of  his  simple  and  august  faces,  of  so  poetic 
and  truthful  an  inspiration,  which  he  has  immortalized  in 
such  religious  compositions  as  old  Tobias  groping  along  the 
road^  the  Father  of  the  Prodigal  Son  clasping  him  to  his 
breast,  Manoah  praying  with  his  wife,  Jacob  blessing  his 
sons  upon  his  death-bed,  and  many  others  of  his  most 
elevated  creations.  The  old  Woman  of  the  Hermitage 
who  so  often  tempted  his  brush  can  worthily  hold  her  place 


2l6  PORTRAIT  OF  AN  OLD  WOMAN 

among  these.  This  poor  old  woman  has  been  through 
much  suffering,  but  in  spite  of  the  misfortunes  of  all  kinds 
which  she  has  had  to  undergo,  an  impressive  expression  of 
kindness,  of  calmness,  and  of  supreme  serenity  dominates 
her  face.  The  indifference  of  the  pose,  the  gentle  benevo- 
lence of  her  vague  glance,  and  the  marvellous  harmony  of 
her  features  lend  to  this  work  of  the  painter  I  know  not 
what  tender  grace  that,  little  by  little,  grows  upon  you  and 
commands  your  respect.  You  forget  to  contemplate  her 
and  to  interrogate  her,  for  in  this  mute  communication  you 
are  held  by  the  touching  gravity  of  her  confidences.  After 
all  her  trials,  accepted  with  such  an  entire  resignation,  we 
are  happy  in  the  assurance  of  her  near  future.  After  this 
unspeakable  mixture  of  the  real  and  the  ideal,  of  clearness 
and  mystery  which  makes  it  a  pure  masterpiece,  this  simple 
portrait  urges  and  invites  us  to  that  secret  assistance 
which  the  greatest  masters  only  have  the  power  of  awaking 
in  us.  In  opening  our  souls  and  in  communicating  thus 
with  us,  they  lift  us  up  to  themselves  by  the  irresistible 
fascination  of  their  genius. 


1 


THE  RAPE  OF  EUROPA 

(  Veronese) 

S.   A.   RITMAN 


\- 


THE  Ducal  Palace  still  contains  the  most  splendid 
manifestations  of  the  genius  of  Paul  Veronese.  In 
that  sanctuary  of  art  called  the  Anti  Collegio,  where  his 
glory  might  be  expected  to  pale  beside  that  of  Tintoretto, 
four  of  whose  best  pictures  are  here — Mercury  and  the 
Graces^  Vulcan  s  Forge^  Pallas  with  Joy  and  Abundance^  and 
Ariane  Consoled  by  Bacchus — it  is  nevertheless  the  Rape  of 
Europa  that  commands  the  greatest  attention  and  admira- 
tion from  the  majority  of  visitors.  This  picture  was 
painted  by  Veronese  at  the  noontide  of  his  powers,  and  it 
makes  an  even  greater  impression  on  most  people  than  the 
gorgeous  Alarriage  of  Cana  of  the  Louvre.  It  is  the  very 
triumph  and  perfection  of  the  art  of  painting,  full  of  splen- 
dour and  warmth,  and  animated  with  life  in  its  gayest  and 
most  entrancing  mood.  It  fills  the  eyes  with  delight  and 
the  heart  with  sensuous  beauty. 

At  the  time  when  Caliari,  better  known  as  Paul  Ver- 
onese, was  born  in  Verona,  a  school  was  rising  there  whose 
works  were  distinguished  by  a  scenic  and  purely  decorative 
character.  Venice  had  long  shown  this  taste  :  there  the 
choice  of  rich  adjuncts  to  the  main  interest  of  the  work, 
the   introduction   of  hangings,   wreaths,   carpets    and    silks 


2l8  THE  RAPE  OF  EUROPA 

prevailed.  This  was  the  natural  result  of  holding  "  the 
gorgeous  East  in  fee."  Paul  Caliari  shows  this  taste  in 
fuller  development  perhaps  than  any  other  painter.  Living 
amidst  the  most  sumptuous  costumes  of  silk,  satin  and 
brocade  that  fashion  ever  produced,  he  filled  his  great  can- 
vases with  patricians  and  their  retinues  in  settings  of  more 
than  royal  magnificence.  No  matter  what  the  subject — 
sacred,  historical,  emblematical  or  mythical — Veronese 
found  himself  forced  to  make  his  figures  glitter  with  gems 
and  rustle  with  silks.  In  his  Marriage  of  St.  Catherine^ 
for  example,  Christ's  bride  is  crowned  and  amply  robed  in 
rich  brocade,  in  which  stufF  the  angel  musicians  are  also 
gowned  ;  and  above  them  rise  marble  columns  draped  with 
hangings  of  splendid  silks.  The  Marriage  of  Carta  and 
many  another  famous  painting  by  this  master  show  the 
same  luxurious  revelling.  In  a  mythological  subject,  there- 
fore, such  as  the  Rape  of  Eur  op  a  ^  it  is  not  surprising  to  see 
the  daughter  of  Agenor  on  the  margin  of  the  sea  near 
Sidon  robed,  as  are  also  her  companions,  in  Venetian  mag- 
nificence. 

In  his  representation  of  the  scene,  Veronese  has  closely 
followed  Ovid's  narration.  In  fact,  if  we  reproduce  part 
of  his  version,  we  shall  be  describing  the  picture.  Jupiter 
has  fallen  in  love  with  Europa  as  she  sports  with  her  com- 
panions, and  at  his  behest  the  ever  obsequious  Mercury  has 
driven  a  herd  of  cattle  to  the  meads  where  the  maidens  are. 

"  Mixing  with  the  oxen,  he  lows,  and  in  all  his  beauty, 
walks  about  upon  the  shooting  grass.  For  his  colour  is  that 
of  snow,  which  neither  the  soles  of  hard  feet  have  trodden 


THE   RAPE  OF  EUROPA  219 

upon,  nor  the  watery  South  wind  melted.  His  neck  swells 
with  muscles,  dewlaps  hang  from  between  his  shoulders. 
His  horns  are  small  indeed,  but  such  as  you  might  maintain 
were  made  with  the  hand,  and  more  transparent  than  a 
bright  gem.  There  is  nothing  threatening  in  his  brow  j 
nor  is  his  eve  formidable  ;  his  countenance  expresses  peace. 
The  daughter  of  Agenor  is  surprised  that  he  is  so  beautiful, 
and  that  he  threatens  no  attack;  but  although  so  gentle,  she 
is  at  first  afraid  to  touch  him.  Presently  she  approaches 
him,  and  holds  out  flowers  to  his  white  mouth.  The  lover 
rejoices,  he  gives  kisses  to  her  hands.  And  now  he  plays 
with  her  and  skips  upon  the  green  grass  ;  and  now  he  lays 
his  snow-white  side  upon  the  yellow  sand.  And,  her  fear 
now  removed  by  degrees,  at  one  moment  he  gives  his  breast 
to  be  patted  by  the  hand  of  the  virgin  ;  at  another  his  horns 
to  be  wreathed  with  new-made  garlands.  The  virgin  of 
roval  birth  even  ventured  to  sit  down  upon  the  back  of  the 
bull,  not  knowing  upon  whom  she  was  pressing.  Then  the 
God,  by  degrees  moving  from  the  land,  and  from  the  dry 
shore,  places  the  fictitious  hoofs  of  his  feet  in  the  waves 
near  the  brink.  Then  he  goes  still  further  and  carries  his 
prize  over  the  expanse  of  the  midst  of  the  ocean.  She  is 
affrighted,  and  borne  off,  looks  back  on  the  shore  she  has 
left ;  and  with  her  right  hand  she  grasps  his  horn,  while  the 
other  is  placed  on  his  back  j  her  wavmg  garments  are  ruffled 
by  the  breeze." 

The  painter  of  this  picture  charmingly  follows  the  naive 
methods  of  early  art,  and  shows  us  three  separate  scenes  of 
Europa's  abduction,  though  the  two  subordinate  ones  do 


220  THE  RAPE  OF  EUROPA 

not  in  any  way  detract  from  the  interest  of  the  chief  cen- 
tral episode.  In  the  foreground,  Europa  is  taking  her  seat 
on  the  back  of  the  kneeling  bull ;  in  the  middle  distance 
the  bull  with  his  precious  burden  is  slowly  moving  away, 
preceded  by  Cupid  and  accompanied  by  Europa's  compan- 
ions,— all  is  still  confidence  and  girlish  gaiety.  Finally  in 
the  background,  the  bull  has  gained  the  strand,  swiftly 
speeding  to  the  deep.  Europa  already  is  terrified  as  she 
realizes  her  danger.  She  is  seen  turning  back,  and  calling 
to  her  playmates,  and  stretching  out  her  arms  to  them. 
They  have  frantically  rushed  into  the  waves  after  her,  but 
the  sea  grows  smooth  before  the  feet  of  Jupiter,  who 
leaves  them  far  behind  as  he  fares  with  unwetted  hoofs  over 
the  wide  waves. 

The  central  group  in  the  foreground  is  one  of  rare  charm 
and  grace.  The  divine  bull,  snow-white  in  hue,  kneels 
and  forms  a  sort  of  ivory  throne  for  the  temporary  queen 
of  his  devotion.  A  smiling  landscape  stretches  all  around 
him,  and  above  him  lean  trees  loaded  with  fruit.  His 
limbs,  head  and  body  are  of  delicate  and  beautiful  form. 
His  small  and  shining  horns  and  his  ears  are  garlanded 
with  flowers.  His  eyes  are  full  of  a  caressing  languor,  as  he 
bows  his  head  to  lick  Europa's  left  foot.  The  latter  is 
seated  on  his  back.  Her  beautiful  arms  are  bare  to  above 
the  elbows  and,  with  the  exception  of  sandals  laced  with 
thongs,  her  feet  and  ankles  are  also  bare.  Her  head 
slightly  bends  to  the  left  and  upwards,  showing  almost  a 
full  face.  Her  figure  has  that  opulence  of  curve  and  propor- 
tion in  which  Veronese  delights.     Her  robe  has  fallen  away 


THE  RAPE  OF  EUROPA  121 

leaving  her  bosom  bare,  and  one  of  her  attendants  is  bend- 
ing down,  showing  a  beautiful  figure  charmingly  fore- 
shortened, and  clasping  at  Europa's  left  shoulder  a  richly 
jewelled,  transverse  girdle.  Another  companion  is  adjust- 
ing Europa's  ample  draperies  and  making  her  position  com- 
fortable on  the  amiable  bull's  back  before  starting  on  the 
novel  ride  through  the  meadows.  This  attendant  is  re- 
proving a  big,  snarling  dog,  who  apparently  has  penetrated 
the  god's  disguise,  and  wants  to  save  his  mistress. 
Europa's  robe  is  of  the  rich  materials  and  hues  in  which 
this  artist  delighted.  A  necklace  of  pearls,  with  which 
Veronese  so  often  adorns  his  female  figures,  decks  her 
beautiful  neck,  a  rich  bracelet  clasps  her  wrist,  and  her 
abundant  tresses  are  waved  back  from  her  low  broad  brow 
and  fall  down  her  back.  Above  in  the  air,  hovering  cupids 
pluck  fruits  and  extend  coronals  of  blossoms  from  the  trees 
to  two  other  of  the  princess's  attendants,  who  raise  their 
hands  in  graceful  attitudes  to  receive  them.  The  whole 
sentiment  of  the  scene  is  reminiscent  of  the  toilette  of 
Venus;  and  indeed  neither  the  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty, 
nor  her  Graces,  would  be  shamed  by  the  lovely  forms 
given  by  V^cronese  to  Europa  and  her  companions.  The 
bending  trees  cast  an  aqueous  green  shadow  over  all  this 
group.  The  whole  picture  is  a  marvel  of  light  and  colour, 
and  smiles  with  eternal  youth  and  joyous  vitality.  Sky, 
shadows,  trees,  flowers,  meads,  waves,  flesh  tints  and 
draperies  all  seem  to  be  bathed  in  the  glow  of  an  unknown 
Elysium.  Everything  palpitates  with  life,  youth  and  love; 
everything  is  fresh,  tender  and  seductive;  everything  is  joy- 


222  THE  RAPE  OF  EUROPA 

ous,  calm  and  pure.  There  is  nothing  mannered  in  the 
grace  of  this  composition,  and  nothing  unwholesome  in  this 
radiant  gaiety.  Watteau  doubtless  derived  the  inspiration 
for  his  Depart  pour  Cythere  from  this  picture ;  which  indeed 
contains  the  same  elements  of  fashionable  distinction, 
though  of  an  earlier  and  less  artificial  period.  The  female 
forms  are  superb  m  their  opulence ;  Venetian  delight  and 
Greek  beauty  decked  with  flowing  and  lively  draperies  are 
here  happily  mingled.  This  picture  is  only  one  of  many 
examples  that  show  how  adept  Veronese  is  in  covering  the 
antique  with  the  costume  of  his  day  without  leaving  any 
feeling  of  anachronism,  awkwardness,  or  unreality. 

There  are  several  variants  of  this  picture ;  the  best 
known  of  these  are  in  Dresden,  Rome,  and  London.  The 
picture  now  in  the  Ducal  Palace  in  Venice  was  taken  to 
Paris  with  other  Italian  masterpieces  when  Napoleon  looted 
Italy  of  so  many  of  its  art  treasures.  In  Paris,  it  suffered 
considerably  from  irreverent  *'  restoration."  However,  a 
replica  of  this  picture  in  the  Capitoline  Museum,  Rome, 
would  appear  to  have  suffered  still  more  from  this  species 
of  vandalism.  This  picture  is  considered  by  some  critics 
to  be  the  first  draught  of  the  work.  Its  colour,  however, 
is  completely  lacking  in  transparency;  and  even  the  draw- 
ing is  not  distinguished  by  the  elegance  that  the  picture  in 
Venice  possesses  in  such  a  marked  degree.  Among  the 
subjects  taken  from  Greek  mythology,  none  has  appealed 
to  great  painters  more  strongly  than  that  of  the  Rape  of 
Europa.  In  addition  to  the  replicas  attributed  to  Veronese 
himself,  the  subject  was  treated  by  Titian  in  his  old  age. 


THE   RAPE   OF  EUROPA  223 

This  picture  passed  from  the  Orleans  gallery  into  England, 
Florence  also  possesses  a  Europa  by  Albano  -,  and  Munich 
another  by  Domenichino.  Numerous  other  masters  have 
been  atti acted  by  this  myth,  among  whom  may  be  men- 
tioned Rembrandt,  Annibal  and  Ludovico  Caracci,  Guide, 
Claude  Lorraine,  IVIignard,  Natoire  and  Boucher.  Nor 
must  we  forget  a  charming  little  bronze  by  Benvenuto 
Cellini,  which  may  be  seen  in  the  Corsini  Palace,  in  Rome. 
The  principal  engravings  after  the  Rape  of  Europa  by 
Veronese  are  by  P.  Bettelini,  F.  Renaldi,  Edme  Jeaurat  and 
Reveil. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD 

{Hunt) 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

MR.  HUNT  has  never  explained  his  work  to  me.  I 
give  vi^hat  appears  to  me  its  palpable  interpretation. 

The  legend  beneath  it  is  the  beautiful  verse, — "  Behold, 
I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.  If  any  man  hear  my  voice, 
and  open  the  door,  I  will  come  in  to  him,  and  will  sup 
with  him,  and  he  with  me." — Rev.  iii,  20.  On  the  left 
hand  side  of  the  picture  is  seen  this  door  of  the  human 
soul.  It  is  fast  barred :  its  bars  and  nails  are  rusty ;  it  is 
knitted  and  bound  to  its  stanchions  by  creeping  tendrils  of 
ivy,  showing  that  it  has  never  been  opened.  A  bat  hovers 
about  it ;  its  threshold  is  overgrown  with  brambles,  nettles, 
and  fruitless  corn, — the  wild  grass,  "  whereof  the  mower 
filleth  not  his  hand,  nor  he  that  bindeth  sheaves  his 
bosom."  Christ  approaches  it  in  the  night  time, — Christ, 
in  his  everlasting  offices  of  prophet,  priest,  and  king.  He 
wears  the  white  robe,  representing  the  power  of  the  Spirit 
upon  him ;  the  jewelled  robe  and  breastplate,  representing 
the  sacerdotal  investiture  j  the  rayed  crown  of  gold,  in- 
woven with  the  crown  of  thorns,  but  now  bearing  soft 
leaves,  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 

Now,  when  Christ  enters  any  human  heart,  he  bears 
with  him  a  two-fold  light.     First  the  light  of  conscience, 


I  III.     I. Kill  I     III       Jill.     W  oltl.J) 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD  225 

which  displays  past  sin,  and  afterwards  the  light  of  peace, 
the  hope  of  salvation.  The  lantern,  carried  in  Christ's 
left  hand,  is  this  light  of  conscience.  Its  fire  is  red  and 
fierce ;  it  falls  only  on  the  closed  door,  on  the  weeds  which 
encumber  it,  and  on  an  apple  shaken  from  one  of  the  trees 
of  the  orchard,  thus  marking  that  the  entire  awakening  of 
the  conscience  is  not  merely  to  committed,  but  to  heredi- 
tarv  guilt. 

This  light  is  suspended  by  a  chain,  wrapt  about  the 
wrist  of  the  figure,  showing  that  the  light  which  reveals 
sin  appears  to  the  sinner  also  to  chain  the  hand  of  Christ. 

The  light  which  proceeds  from  the  head  of  the  figure, 
on  the  contrary,  is  that  of  the  hope  of  salvation  ;  it  springs 
from  the  crown  of  thorns,  and,  though  itself  sad,  subdued, 
and  full  of  softness,  is  yet  so  powerful  that  it  entirely  melts 
into  the  glow  of  it  the  forms  of  the  leaves  and  boughs, 
which  it  crosses,  showing  that  every  earthly  object  must  be 
hidden  by  this  light,  where  its  sphere  extends. 

I  believe  there  are  very  few  persons  on  whom  the  pic- 
ture, thus  justly  understood,  will  not  produce  a  deep  im- 
pression. For  my  own  part,  I  think  it  one  of  the  very 
noblest  works  of  sacred  art  ever  produced  in  this  or  any 
other  age. 

It  mav,  perhaps,  be  answered,  that  works  of  art  ought 
not  to  stand  in  need  of  interpretation  of  this  kind.  Indeed, 
wc  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  see  pictures  painted 
w'thout  any  purpose  or  intention  whatsoever,  that  the  un- 
expected existence  of  meaning  in  a  work  of  art  may  very 
naturally   at   first   appear   to  us   an    unkind   derjiand  on  the 


226  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD 

spectator's  understanding.  But  in  a  few  moments  more  I 
hope  the  English  public  may  be  convinced  of  the  simple 
truth,  that  neither  a  great  fact,  nor  a  great  man,  nor  a 
great  poem,  nor  a  great  picture,  nor  any  other  great  thing, 
can  be  fathomed  to  the  very  bottom  of  in  a  moment  of 
time ;  and  that  no  high  enjoyment,  either  in  picture-seeing 
or  any  other  occupation,  is  consistent  with  a  total  lethargy 
of  the  powers  of  the  understanding. 

As  far  as  regards  the  technical  qualities  of  Mr.  Hunt's 
painting,  I  would  only  ask  the  spectator  to  observe  this 
difference  between  true  pre-Raphaelite  work,  and  its  imita- 
tions. The  true  work  represents  all  objects  exactly  as 
they  would  appear  in  nature  in  the  position  and  at  the 
distances  which  the  arrangement  of  the  picture  supposes. 
The  false  work  represents  them  with  all  their  details,  as  if 
seen  through  a  microscope.  Examine  closely  the  ivy  on 
the  door  in  Mr.  Hunt's  picture,  and  there  will  not  be  found 
in  it  a  single  clear  outline.  All  is  the  most  exquisite 
mystery  of  colour;  becoming  reality  at  its  due  distance. 
In  like  manner,  examine  the  small  gems  on  the  robe  of  the 
figure.  Not  one  will  be  made  out  in  form,  and  yet  there 
is  not  one  of  all  those  minute  points  of  green  colour,  but  it 
has  two  or  three  distinctly  varied  shades  of  green  in  it, 
giving  it  mysterious  value  and  lustre. 

The  spurious  imitations  of  pre-Raphaelite  work  repre- 
sent the  most  minute  leaves  and  other  objects  with  sharp 
outlines,  but  with  no  variety  of  colour,  and  with  none  of 
the  concealment,  none  of  the  infinity  of  nature. 


fj 


ST.  ANNE      wUU'*-^^ 

(J^ionardo  da    Vinct) 
F.   A.   GRUYER 

HERE  is  a  work  of  singular  nobility  and  prodigious 
virtuosity,  but  also  one  in  which  the  recognized 
religious  proprieties  are  strangely  sacrificed.  Lionardo  left 
foolish  scruples  to  fools  and  cared  very  little  about  what 
there  might  be  in  his  paintings  to  scandalize  common 
reason,  which,  moreover,  he  did  not  confound  with  com- 
mon sense.  The  St.  Anne  routs  criticism  and  defies 
analysis.  Its  conception  is  odd  and  improbable.  But  what 
does  that  matter,  so  long  as  the  beauties  revealed  in  it  are 
great  ? 

The  Virgin,  sitting  on  St.  Anne's  lap,  leans  over  towards 
the  Infant  Jesus  who  with  both  hands  is  holding  a  lamb  by 
the  ears  and  trying  to  climb  upon  its  back.  Whatever  in- 
terest is  found  in  the  figure  of  this  Bambino  and  although 
its  head  is  very  beautiful,  yet  a  pupil  or  imitator  of  the 
master  might  have  painted  it.  Moreover,  it  is  not  finished 
and  many  weak  points  are  left  in  it.  It  is  quite  otherwise 
with  St.  Anne  and  the  Virgin,  to  which  figures  Lionardo 
has  entirely  devoted  himself.  The  great  interest  of  the 
picture  lies  in  these.  One  is  the  mother  of  the  other,  but 
Lionardo  scarcely  pays  any  attention  to  that.  It  strikes  his 
fancy  to  represent  a  group  of  two  iigures,  young  with  the 


228  ST.  ANNE 

same  youth  and  beautiful  with  the  same  beauty :  that  cuts 
short  all  objections.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  evan- 
gelic drama,  there  was  a  contrast  to  be  drawn  between 
these  two  women.  St.  Anne  can  smile  without  any  hidden 
thoughts  at  the  pranks  of  the  Bambino^  but  the  Virgin  can- 
not, for,  being  in  the  secrets  of  God,  the  lamb,  the  em- 
blem of  sacrifice,  must  awake  in  her  the  presentiment  of 
the  cross.  Lionardo  sets  this  distinction  also  entirely 
aside.  The  Virgin  and  St.  Anne  shall  be  animated  with 
the  same  joy  :  his  picturesque  combinations  demand  this, 
and  so  much  the  worse  for  the  Christian  idea  if  it  does  not 
receive  its  dues  here.  Here,  therefore,  we  have  neither  St. 
Anne  nor  the  Virgin  :  the  former  is  far  from  the  Biblical 
austerity  that  should  belong  to  the  spouse  of  St.  Joachim, 
and  the  latter  is  still  farther  from  the  divine  humility  that 
is  the  symbol  of  the  mother  of  Jesus ;  but  the  concord  of 
these  two  faces  is  ravishing,  and  the  harmony  of  their 
smiles  is  one  of  the  most  harmonious  that  ever  could  be 
dreamed  of.  Both  are  enchantresses  endowed  with  that 
Italian  beauty  that  bursts  forth  and  is  always  accompanied 
with  majesty.  One  would  credit  them  with  being  made  of 
light  and  shadow.  Life  flows  in  them  with  brimming 
banks  without  the  appearance  of  any  gross  clay.  Enig- 
matic and  mysterious,  animated  by  a  strange  sensibility — I 
was  about  to  say  sensuality — they  provoke  admiration 
whilst  at  the  same  time  troubling  the  soul  with  an  emotion 
that  almost  amounts  to  enervation. 

St.  Anne  is  seated  facing  us,  with  her  left  hand  proudly 
planted  on   her  hip  and  her  right  arm   enveloped    in   the 


I,.   DA  VINCI. 


ST.  ANNE  229 

violet  drapery  of  her  mantle.  Her  head,  wound  with  thick 
bands  of  brown  hair  covered  with  a  transparent  veil,  is  ani- 
mated with  a  gaiety  that  is  charming  aiw  full  of  youth. 
What  is  visible  of  her  neck  and  breast  is  bare,  and  bare  also 
are  her  feet.  She  is  the  axis  of  the  picture,  to  which,  very 
properly,  she  has  given  her  name.  What  character  there 
is  in  her  physiognomy  !  With  what  native  grandeur, 
nobility  and  pride  she  bears  herself!  The  Virgin,  sitting 
on  her  mother's  knees,  is  three-quarters  right  face.  Her 
opulent  and  waving  tresses  fall  down  along  her  cheeks  and 
behind  her  neck.  Her  head,  her  breast,  her  arms  and  her 
right  leg  and  foot  arc  stretched  out  almost  horizontally  in 
front,  while  her  left  leg  is  bent  almost  vertically  backwards. 
Her  robe,  very  low  in  the  neck,  does  not  hide  any  of  the 
throat  or  shoulders ;  the  veilings  are  present  only  to  en- 
hance her  beauty.  Her  body,  moulded  in  the  vesture  that 
harmoniously  outlines  its  forms,  has  something  of  the 
decent  boldness  of  beautiful  nudities.  And  it  is  quite  a 
profane  seductiveness  that  inflames  the  face.  Nowhere  has 
Lionardo  more  happily  reproduced  the  type  of  woman  that 
pursued  him.  What  charm  there  is  in  this  whole  figure  ! 
What  suppleness  there  is  in  its  action,  and  what  spontane- 
ity in  its  gesture  !  But  at  the  same  time,  how  very  far  this 
pretended  Virgin  is  from  what  she  should  be  !  This  then 
is  what  the  greatest  of  Florentine  painters  made  of  the 
Mother  of  the  Word  !  What  would  John  of  Fiesolc  have 
thought  in  the  presence  of  such  an  image  .''  The  times,  it 
is  true,  had  changed.  The  Renaissance,  having  arrived  at 
the  apogee  of  its  grandeur,  knew  too  much  of  the  world  to 


230  ST.  ANNE 

have  retained  much  of  God,  and  certainly  it  was  not  upon 
his  knees  that  Lionardo  painted.  ^ 

But  let  us  not  decry  masterpieces,  and,  pygmies  as  we 
are,  let  us  not  haggle  over  our  admiration  of  them  !  What 
a  magnificent  equilibrium  exists  between  these  two  figures 
of  St.  Anne  and  the  Virgin  !  How  they  hold  together,  and 
what  elegance  and  solidity  there  are  in  the  ties  that  unite 
them  !  They  are  not  above  the  natural  size  and  yet  they 
appear  colossal.  And  the  landscape  that  serves  as  a  back- 
ground to  them  adds  something  unfathomable  to  their  size. 
Lionardo's  passion  for  science  declares  itself  in  the  humblest 
things.  This  universal  investigator  knew  plants  and  stones 
by  their  virtues  quite  as  much  as  he  loved  them  for  their 
beauties.  His  rocky  foregrounds  evince  an  art  that  desires 
to  penetrate  the  whole  of  nature,  and  his  horizons  mount  to 
the  sublime  in   poetic  picturesqueness.^     What  a  striking 

'  Lionardo  ventured  as  far  as  possible  into  the  domains  of  religious  prof- 
anations. Yielding  to  the  sacrilegious  demands  of  Ludovico  il  Moro,  it  is 
said  that  more  than  once  he  took  Cecilia  Gallevani,  the  mistress  of  his  all- 
powerful  protector,  as  a  model  in  his  religious  pictures.  Sometimes  he 
disguised  her  as  a  saint  and  sometimes  as  a  Virgin.  Amoretti  cites  a 
picture  of  a  Virgin  beneath  which  Lionardo  had  written  these  verses : 
"  Per  Cecilia  qual  te  orna,  lauda  e  adora 
El  tuo  unico figliolo,  0  beata  Vergine,  exora." 

The  portrait  of  Cecilia  Gallevani,  now  lost,  during  the  last  century 
belonged  to  the  Marquis  Boncvana. 

*  On  the  right  we  see  a  clump  of  trees  that  has  not  been  carried  beyond 
the  stage  of  sketch.  In  his  Treatise  on  painting,  Lionardo  himself  has 
told  us  what  importance  he  attributed  to  landscape.  He  required  a  painter 
to  be  universal  in  his  art,  and  denounced  those  who  attached  too  little  im- 
portance to  the  study  of  landscape  to  spend  any  time  on  it, "  like  our  friend 
Botticelli,  who  sometimes  said  that  it  is  enough  to  throw  a  sponge  soaked 
with  various  colours  haphazard  at  a  wall,  so  that  a  stain  may  be  printed  on 
it  in  which  with  a  little  imagination  one  may  see  a  landscape." 


ST.  ANNh.  231' 

opposition  there  is  between  the  smiling  faces  of  the  picture 
and  the  gulfs  of  those  fantastic  distances  in  which  the  gaze 
loses  itself  in  a  sort  of  vertigo.  Do  not  our  souls  recognize 
an  incomparable  beauty  of  isolation  in  those  deserts  bristling 
with  peaks  resembling  ruins  ?  ^ 

So  far,  it  has  been  impossible  to  assign  a  date  to  this 
picture.  When  Lionardo  returned  to  Florence  from  Milan 
about  the  year  1500,  the  Servite  Friars  had  just  ordered 
from  Filippino  Lippi  a  picture  of  St.  Anne  for  the  high 
altar  of  the  yfnnunziata.  The  excellent  Filippino,  having 
learned  that  Lionardo  regretted  not  having  been  entrusted 
with  this  work,  abandoned  it  to  him,  and  Lionardo  immedi- 
ately went  and  took  up  his  quarters  with  the  Servites,  who 
fed  him  and  paid  all  his  expenses.  After  long  hesitation, 
he  made  his  cartoon,  representmg  St.  Anne,  the  Virgin,  the 
Infant  Jesus  and  St.  John  the  Baptist.  This  sketch  was 
exhibited,  and  gamed  an  ovation  for  Lionardo.  It  was  ad- 
mired not  only  by  the  painters,  but  the  multitude  also 
flocked  to  look  at  it.  They  thronged  about  it  as  at  solemn 
festivals.  The  triumph  was  complete.  Lionardo  prom- 
ised to  execute  the  work,  but  he  did  nothing  to  it.  The 
cartoon,  which  Vasari  describes  in  detail  is  in  fact  one  of 
remarkable  beauty.  It  may  be  seen  at  the  Royal  Academy 
in   London,  where  one  may  satisfy  oneself  that  it  does  not 

'  Several  very  beautiful  designs  for  this  St.  Anne  picture  are  known. 
M.  femile  Gallichon's  collection  alone  contained  two.  In  another  sketch 
(or  the  same  picture,  Lionardo  tried  the  employment  of  a  waterfall.  We 
sec  that  science  ceaselessly  pursued  him,  and  }X)ssessed  him  even  when  he 
was  painting.  Or  rather,  art  and  science  were  never  more  strictly  con- 
founded, or  more  comijletcly  in  accord  tliaii  in  tiiis  mighty  genius. 


232  ST.  ANNE 

in  the  least  conform  with  the  picture.  However,  notwith- 
standing the  differences  presented  by  these  two  pictures, 
there  are  intimate  bonds  between  them.  When  all  Florence 
had  admired  the  Servites'  cartoon,  Lionardo  found  some 
weak  points  in  it,  and  became  disgusted  with  it.  In  this 
cartoon,  the  Virgin  is  half  sitting  on  St.  Anne,  and  their 
heads  are  close  together,  in  the  same  plane  and  on  the 
same  horizontal  line.  Notwithstanding  the  charm  of  this 
very  beautiful  sketch,  this  gives  rise  to  a  certain  indecision 
in  the  attitudes,  and  a  little  monotony  in  the  lines.  As  for 
the  Infant  Jesus,  who  is  springing  from  his  mother's  arms 
to  bless  the  little  St.  John  who  is  kneeling  before  him,  he 
has  nothing  in  common  with  the  Infant  Jesus  of  the  finished 
picture.  Moreover,  this  group  of  the  two  children  was  a 
theme  that  had  already  been  done  to  death.  Lionardo 
might  have  done  as  Raphael  did, — repeat  it  again  and 
again  without  ever  exhausting  it;  but  he  found  it  simpler 
to  renounce  it.  The  cartoon  was  abandoned,  and  years 
passed  before  the  great  artist  thought  again  of  taking  up  the 
idea  of  painting  the  St.  Anne.  When  he  set  to  work  again 
at  this  picture,  he  had  without  doubt  definitely  left  Florence 
to  install  himself  again  in  Milan.  It  would  therefore  be 
between  1507  and  15 12  that  he  executed  the  picture  in 
which  he  adopted  the  great  picturesque  version  that  we  see 
in  the  Louvre.  What  authorizes  this  supposition  is  that 
we  are  almost  fully  acquainted  with  the  use  that  Lionardo 
made  of  his  time  in  Florence  between  1500  and  1507. 
His  contemporaries  are  very  explicit  in  this  respect :  they 
State  that  the  cartoon  of  the  Jnnunziata  was  not  followed 


ST.  ANNE  133 

by  any  picture  representing  the  same  subject  at  this  period. 
What  makes  us  think  furthermore  that  the  St.  Jnne  was 
executed  at  Milan  is  the  vogue  it  had  around  Milan  during 
Lionardo's  lifetime,  and  the  great  number  of  copies  that 
were  made  from  it  by  the  best  Lombard  painters  of  the 
school.  It  is  also  to  be  noted  that  the  work  of  the  master 
remained  in  Lombardy  until  the  Seventeenth  Century,  which 
constitutes  another  presumption  in  favour  of  its  having  been 
painted  there.  It  was  in  Lombardy  that  Richelieu  found 
it,  when  he  arrived  to  command  in  person  at  the  siege  of 
Casala  in  1629.  Brought  into  France  by  him,  the  St.  Anne 
then  found  a  place  in  the  gallery  of  the  Palais  Cardinal., 
and  afterwards  entered  the  Cabinet  of  Louis  XIV.  Since 
then  it  has  never  ceased  to  belong  to  France.  It  is  found 
in  the  inventory  of  the  king's  pictures  at  the  beginning  of 
the  Eighteenth  Century,  and  it  is  now  one  of  the  most 
precious  gems  in  our  national  museum. 

Finally,  let  us  note  that  this  picture  is  still  unfinished. 
However  wonderful  it  may  appear  to  us,  Lionardo  was  not 
satisfied  with  it.  The  figures  of  St.  Anne  and  the  Virgin  did 
not  please  him,  and  theii  draperies  remained  partly  in  the 
sketch  stage.  We  know  that  Lionardo  never  succeeded  in  con- 
tenting himself.  Vasari  says  that  this  great  mind,  by  means 
of  heaping  excellence  upon  excellence  and  perfection  upon 
perfection,  carried  his  work  to  that  point  noted  by  Petrarch  : 
"  Che  topra  e  ritardata  dal  desio"  to  that  moment  when  every 
human  work  is  arrested  by  the  desire^  by  something  unknown 
that  caniujt  be  attained  something  of  which  the  soul  has  a  pre- 
sentiment, but  the  possession  of  which  is  prohibited  to  us. 


TOBIAS  AND  THE  ANGEL  RAPHAEL* 

{Perugino) 

PAUL  LAFOND  ^ 

IS  it  not  strange  that  the  most  celebrated  works  of  the 
great  Italian  painter  Pietro  Vannucci,  called  Perugino, 
are  not  to  be  found  in  the  galleries  of  Italy  and  that  it  is 
outside  his  native  country,  scattered  in  the  great  European 
museums,  that  one  must  seek  his  most  perfect  works, — 
those  that  best  exhibit  the  scope  of  his  wonderful  talent  ? 
Let  us  mention  the  Apparition  of  the  Virgin  to  Saint  Ber~ 
nard  in  the  Pinakothek  of  Munich  ;  the  Madonna  between 
Saint    Peter^    Saint    Paul^    Saint    Jerome    and  Saint   'John 

*  The  Hebrew  legend  of  Tobit  and  his  son  Tobias  (told  in  the  Book 
of  Tobit  in  the  Apocrypha)  was  a  favourite  one  with  the  Mediaeval  Church, 
and  became  therefore  a  traditional  subject  for  painting.  Tobit,  a  Jewish 
exile,  having  fallen  also  into  poverty,  and  afterwards  becoming  blind, 
prays  for  death  rather  than  life,  in  noble  despair.  "  To  him  the  angel  of 
all  beautiful  life  (Raphael)  is  sent,  hidden  in  simplicity  of  human  duty, 
taking  a  servant's  place  for  hire  to  lead  his  son  in  all  right  and  happy 
ways  of  life,  explaining  to  him,  and  showing  to  all  of  us  who  read,  in 
faith,  forever,  what  is  the  root  of  all  the  material  evil  in  the  world,  the 
great  end  of  seeking  pleasure  before  use  "  [Fors  Clavigera,  1877).  Here 
we  see  Raphael  leading  the  young  Tobias  into  Media,  where  he  was  to 
marry  Sara,  his  rich  kinswoman,  the  daughter  of  Raguel.  But  she  was 
haunted  by  an  evil  spirit,  who  had  slain  her  seven  husbands,  each  on  their 
wedding  day,  and  the  angel  bade  Tobias  take  the  gall  of  a  certain  fish, 
wherewith  afterwards  to  heal  his  father's  blindness  and  hardness  of  heart 
and  liver  wherewith  to  drive  away  the  evil  spirit  from  his  bride.  Tobias 
is  carrying  the  fish,  Raphael  has  a  small  box  for  the  gall. — Cook. 


TOBIAS  AND  THE  ANGEL  RAPHAEL  235 

Baptist  in  the  Belvedere  Museum,  Vienna ;  The  Ascension 
in  the  Museum  of  Lyons,  which  formerly  decorated  the 
high  altar  of  the  Cathedral  of  Padua  ;  and  the  Sposalizio  in 
the  Museum  of  Caen,  that  came  from  the  Chapelle  du 
Saint-Anneau  of  the  same  church.  These  are  important 
works  which  should  be  counted  among  the  most  delicate 
and  pleasing  ones  of  the  master;  but  it  is  in  the  National 
Gallery  in  London  that  his  most  perfect  chef  d'' ceuvre  is 
found,  the  one  that  best  enables  us  to  appreciate  the  mys- 
tical aspect  of  his  genius,  the  extreme  cleverness  of  his  brush 
and  the  rare  talent  which  knew  how  to  render  the  expres- 
sion of  the  human  form. 

This  picture  is  in  three  compartments,  the  principal  of 
which  shows  us  the  Virgin  on  her  knees  in  a  landscape, 
adoring  the  Infant  Christ  who  is  presenting  an  angel  to  her, 
while  above,  in  the  clouds,  three  angels  are  chanting  the 
praises  of  the  Saviour;  the  second,  Saint  Michael^  seen  full 
face  and  standing;  and  the  third  which  represents  the  Arch- 
angel Raphael  holding  young  Tobias  by  the  Hand  seems,  if  pos- 
sible, superior  to  the  two  others  and  merits  all  our  attention. 

The  scene  is  of  the  simplest.  It  takes  place  in  a  land- 
scape shut  in  by  quite  low  hills;  and  the  two  personages, 
the  Archangel  Raphael  and  young  Tobias,  are  placed  ex- 
actly in  the  foreground,  upon  a  hillock  sown  with  all  kinds 
of  flowers,  their  feet  almost  on  the  edge  of  the  frame,  and 
standing  very  high  above  the  horizon.  The  archangel  is 
represented  as  a  handscjnic  and  slender  young  man  with  fine 
blond  hair  falling  over  his  shoulders  ;  his  head  is  slightly 
inclined  to  the  right;   his  half-opened  wings  seem  set  with 


236  TOBIAS  AND  THE  ANGEL  RAPHAEL 

precious  stones  ;  the  tunic,  a  little  loose,  is  confined  only 
at  the  waist,  cut  out  a  little  upon  the  chest,  revealing  the 
harmonious  lines  of  the  neck,  and  falling  to  the  feet  which 
are  bare  and  admirably  drawn  ;  the  cloak  is  carelessly 
looped  over  the  hips.  In  his  left  hand  brought  up  to  the 
height  of  his  chest,  the  archangel  holds  a  little  box ;  his 
right  hand,  with  graceful  action,  clasps  that  of  Tobias, 
who  lifts  his  eyes  towards  his  guide  and  contemplates  him 
with  a  tender  and  submissive  glance;  suspended  by  a  string 
upon  his  right  wrist,  the  latter  carries  the  fish,  the  gall  of 
which  is  to  restore  his  old  father's  sight.  The  painter  has 
represented  young  Tobias  in  the  elegant  costume  worn  by 
the  Italian  nobility  at  the  end  of  the  Fifteenth  Century. 
A  nimbus  encircles  his  head. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  carry  any  further  than  the  old 
Umbrian  master  has  done  in  this  panel  naivete  and  delicacy 
of  expression,  purity  and  correctness  of  drawmg,  grace  and 
religious  sentiment,  tenderness  and  beauty  of  colouring, 
taste  in  the  attitudes,  and  a  strange  and  somewhat  peculiar 
charm ;  impossible  ever  to  find  lines  that  are  happier  or 
more  delicate.  This  is  certainly  Perugino's  most  finished 
work, — the  one  that  marks  the  height  of  his  genius.  The 
painter's  talent,  which  had  nothing  to  do  but  grow  in  order 
to  reach  this  culminating  point,  began  to  decline  little  by 
little.  The  coming  of  a  new  century, — of  that  superb  and 
pompous  Sixteenth  Century, — was  for  this  mystical  and 
tender  quattrocentiste^  an  ill-omened  date.  Was  it  owing  to 
age — he  was  about  to  pass  his  fiftieth  year  ?  Did  he  doubt 
himself  at  the  sight  of  the  productions  of  the  new  masters  ? 


TOBIAS  AND  THE  ANGEL  RAPHAEL      237 

we  know  nothing  about  it.  But  from  this  moment  all  his 
works  are  but  a  pale  reflection  of  those  which  had  shone 
with  so  much  brilliancy  during  his  youth  and  his  mature 
years.  The  gentle  genius,  which  was  the  glory  of  the 
Umbrian  School,  became  obscured  and  eclipsed.  The 
poor  artist  even  came  in  his  last  years  to  copy  and  make  sad 
thefts  from  his  former  compositions,  without  even  taking 
any  pains  to  dissimulate. 

But  let  us  return  to  our  triptych  in  the  National  Gallery, 
which  the  painter  was  pleased  to  sign,  for  he  has  inscribed 
on  the  left  panel  :  Petrus  Perugimus  pinxit.  Despite  the 
signature  which  seems  authentic,  perhaps  indeed  because  of 
the  signature,  although  in  works  of  art  it  does  not  mean 
very  much,  certain  critics,  and  not  of  the  least  authority^ 
Rumohr,  Passavant,  etc.,  are  not  far  from  believing  that  in 
this  work,  and  particularly  for  the  panel  of  young  Tobias 
and  the  archangel  Raphael,  Perugino  was  helped  by  his 
pupil,  the  divine  Sanzio.  To  support  their  opinions,  we 
must  notice  the  analogy  that  exists  between  this  last  picture 
and  a  drawing  representing  the  same  subject  executed  upon 
tinted  paper  and  attributed  to  Raphael.  This  design,  now 
m  Oxford,  was  previously  in  the  Lawrence  collection. 
But  without  casting  a  doubt  upon  his  prerogative  certified 
by  Dr.  Waagen,  what  is  to  prove  that  Raphael  did  not 
imitate  or  copy  his  master?  Let  us  not  forget  either  that 
he  was  very  young  when  this  panel  was  painted,  that  is  to 
say  between  the  years  1497  "^'"^  1500.  Until  the  contrary 
is  proved,  we  shall  continue  to  attribute  this  masterpiece  to 
the  great  Umbrian  painter. 


238  TOBIAS  AND  THE  ANGEL  RAPHAEL 

This  superb  page  is  but  the  half  of  a  vast  composition 
executed  by  Perugino  for  the  decoration  of  the  high  altar  of 
the  church  of  the  Chartreuse  in  Pavia,  and  formed  two 
triptychs  superimposed.  These  two  triptychs  are  still  in 
their  place,  but  of  the  six  pictures  that  they  contain,  only 
one,  representing  God  the  Father^  is  from  the  hand  of  the 
painter,  the  others  have  been  replaced  by  copies ;  other 
copies  also  hold  the  place  of  the  composition  now  in 
London. 

And  this  is  the  way  that  splendid  altar  decoration  came 
to  the  National  Gallery.  For  a  long  time,  it  had  been  in  the 
Palais  Melzi  in  Milan.  One  of  the  heads  of  that  ancient 
family  had  bought  it  at  the  Chartreuse  in  Pavia  from  which 
it  was  taken  in  a  moment  of  pressing  need  for  money  in 
1786.  In  1859,  'Sir  Charles  Eastlake  bought  It  in  his  turn 
from  the  Due  de  Melzi,  for  the  London  museum,  for  3571 
pounds  sterling,  which  in  French  money  equals  89.265 
a  francs,  considerable  sum  forty  years  ago,  but  which  certainly 
would  be  exceeded  to-day,  if  a  work  of  such  value  were  put 
up  at  auction. 

Let  us  finish  with  a  few  short  biographical  details  of 
Perugino,  little  known,  or  badly  known,  until  these  last 
years,  on  account  of  the  calumnies  that  Vasari  has  heaped 
upon  his  memory.  We  know  that  the  brutal  animosity  of 
the  author  of  the  Lives  of  the  greatest  Painters^  Sculptors^  and 
Architects  with  regard  to  Pietro  Vannucci  had  its  source  in 
the  quarrel  that  the  latter,  already  old,  had  in  Florence  with 
young  Buonarroti  who,  in  a  fit  of  anger,  had  treated  him  in 
public  like   a  blockhead,  or  something   equivalent,  and  for 


TOBIAS  AND  THE  ANGEL  RAPHAEL      239 

this  behaviour,  he  summoned  him  before  the  Tribunal  of 
the  Eight,  who  did  not  grant  the  satisfaction  that  he  had 
hoped  for.  But  was  this  a  sufficient  reason  for  Vasari  to 
stand  up  in  revenge  for  Michelangelo,  his  future  master,  and 
to  represent  the  great  Umbrian  artist  without  the  least  ap- 
pearance of  veracity, — as  a  miser,  a  vile  speculator,  and  a 
despicable  man  ? 

Pietro  Vannucci,  called  Perugino,  was  born  in  1446,  at 
Citta  della  Pieve,  near  Perugia,  where  he  established  him- 
self, and  from  which  is  derived  the  name  by  which  he  is 
generally  called.  His  first  master,  whom  he  left  to  study 
in  Florence  under  the  guidance  of  Andrea  Verocchio,  is 
unknown. 

His  first  authentic  work  is  a  fresco  which  he  painted  in 
the  chapel  of  Cerquito,  near  Perugia,  in  1478.  Then  re- 
turning to  Florence,  Perugino  executed  there  various 
works,  most  of  wnich  have  now  disappeared,  that  made 
him  known.  His  reputation  was  quickly  established  and 
orders  were  not  slow  /n  coming  to  him  from  all  sides.  We 
know  of  numerous  compositions  of  his  in  fresco,  distemper 
and  oil,  which  he  was  one  ot  the  first  in  Italy  to  use,  in 
Siena,  Vallombrosa,  Bologna,  Padua  and  Naples,  etc.,  but 
very  few  of  them  have  come  down  to  us  intact.  Towards 
1480,  he  was  called  to  Rome  by  Pope  Sixtus  IV.,  who  was 
about  to  erect  in  the  Vatican  the  famous  Chapel  that  bears 
his  name,  and  who  ordered  him  to  paint  some  frescoes  in 
it,  two  of  which  still  exist.  This  was  not  the  limit  of  his 
work  in  the  Eternal  City  ;  he  painted  also  in  the  Colotma 
Palace,  and  in  the  church  of  Saint  Mark  ;  but  all  of  these 


240      TOBIAS  AND  THE  ANGEL  RAPHAEL 

works  have  been  destroyed ;  in  the  rooms  of  the  Vatican 
also  you  can  see  a  fresco  by  him,  but  it  is  of  a  much  later 
date  and  far  from  being  one  of  his  best  compositions.  In 
1495,  Pietro  Vannucci  returned  to  Perugia,  and  it  was 
there  that  Raphael,  barely  twelve  years  old,  became  his 
pupil.  A  little  later,  he  returned  to  Florence  and  it  was 
during  this  sojourn  in  the  city  of  the  Medici  that  his  quar- 
rel with  Michelangelo,  of  which  we  said  a  few  words  a 
moment  ago,  took  place.  Returning  permanently  to  Peru- 
gia, which  he  never  left  again  except  for  rare  and  short  in- 
tervals, he  was  charged  with  the  important  decoration  of 
the  Sola  del  Cambio.  When  old  age  came  upon  him,  he  did 
not  abandon  his  brush  but  remained  at  his  post.  The 
works  of  his  old  age  unhappily  show  the  effects  of  his 
years,  among  others,  his  pictures  in  the  Duomo  of  his  native 
Citta  della  Pieve ;  but  let  us  not  insist  upon  these  last 
works,  so  little  worthy  of  the  master;  we  have  already 
spoken  of  them. 

Perugino  died  in  Castillo  de  Font'ignano  in  1524,  at  the 
age  of  seventy-eight ;  with  nim  ends  the  Umbrian  school 
of  which  he  was  the  most  brilliant  example. 


ECCE  ANCILLA  DOMINE 

{Rossftti)  ^  ^. 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

ROSSETTI'S  Annunciation  differs  from  every  previous 
conception  of  the  scene  known  to  me,  in  repre- 
senting the  angel  as  waking  the  Virgin  from  sleep  to  give 
her  his  message.  The  iMessenger  himself  also  differs  from 
angels  as  they  are  commonly  represented,  in  not  depending 
for  recognition  of  his  supernatural  character,  on  the  inser- 
tion of  bird's  wings  at  his  shoulders.  If  we  are  to  know 
him  for  an  angel  at  all,  it  must  be  by  his  face,  which  is 
that  simply  of  youthful,  but  grave,  manhood.  He  is 
neither  transparent  in  body,  luminous  in  presence,  nor 
auriferous  in  apparel; — wears  a  plain,  long,  white  robe; — 
casts  a  natural  and  undiminished  shadow, — and  although 
there  are  flames  beneath  his  feet,  which  upbear  him,  so 
that  he  docs  not  touch  the  earth,  these  are  unseen  by  the 
Virgin.  She  herself  is  an  English,  not  a  Jewish  girl,  of 
about  sixteen  or  seventeen,  of  such  pale  and  thoughtful 
beauty  as  Rossetti  could  best  imagine  for  her.  She  has 
risen  half  up,  not  started  up,  in  being  awakened;  and  is 
not  looking  at  the  angel,  but  only  thinking,  with  eyes  cast 
down,  as  if  supposing  herself  in  a  strange  dream.  The 
morning  light  fills  the  room,  and  shows  at  the  foot  of  her 
little  pallct-bcd,  her  embroidery   work,  left  off  the  evening 


242  ECCE  ANCILLA  DOMINE 

before, — an  upright  lily.  Upright,  and  very  accurately  up- 
right, as  also  the  edges  of  the  piece  of  cloth  in  its  frame, — 
as  also  the  gliding  form  of  the  angel, — as  also,  in  severe 
foreshortening,  that  of  the  Virgin  herself.  It  has  been 
studied,  so  far  as  it  has  been  studied  at  all,  from  a  very 
thin  model ;  and  the  disturbed  coverlid  is  thrown  into  con- 
fused angular  folds,  which  admit  no  suggestion  whatever  of 
ordinary  girlish  grace.  So  that,  to  any  spectator  little  in- 
clined towards  the  praise  of  barren  *  uprightness,'  and  ac- 
customed on  the  contrary  to  expect  radiance  in  archangels, 
and  grace  in  Madonnas,  the  first  effect  of  the  design  must 
be  extremely  displeasing.  .  .  .  But  the  reader  will,  if 
careful  in  reflection,  discover  in  all  pre-Raphaelite  pictures, 
however  distinct  otherwise  in  aim  and  execution,  an  effort 
to  represent  things  as  they  are,  or  were,  or  may  be,  instead 
of,  according  to  the  practice  of  their  instructors  and  the 
wishes  of  their  public,  things  as  they  are  «<?/,  never  were, 
and  never  can  be :  this  effort  being  founded  deeply  on  a 
conviction  that  it  is  at  first  better,  and  finally  more  pleas- 
ing, for  human  minds  to  contemplate  things  as  they  are, 
than  as  they  are  not.  Thus  Mr.  Rossetti,  in  this  and  sub- 
sequent works  of  the  kind,  thought  it  better  for  himself  and 
his  public  to  make  some  effort  towards  a  real  notion  of 
what  actually  did  happen  in  the  carpenter's  cottage  at 
Nazareth,  giving  rise  to  the  subsequent  traditions  delivered 
in  the  Gospels,  than  merely  to  produce  a  variety  in  the 
pattern  of  the  Virgin,  pattern  of  Virgin's  gown,  and  pattern 
of  Virgin's  house,  which  had  been  set  by  the  jewellers  of 
the  Fifteenth  Century. 


ECCK    AN<  II  I.A     I-OMINK. 


ECCE  ANCILLA  DOMINI 
(Ressitti) 

WILLIAM  SHARP 

THE  main  colour  of  this  composition  is  white,  but  blue 
and  crimson  wonderfully  add  to  the  general  effect 
of  lucency  ;  and  it  is  wrought  in  such  exquisite  lightness, 
delicacy,  and  beauty  as  to  deserve  the  highest  praise  that 
Mr.  Ruskin  or  any  one  else  could  bestow  upon  it.  It 
seems  to  me  to  stand  alone  amongst  this  artist's  works  for 
perfect  clarity,  and  has  even  less  of  the  early  Italian  Goth- 
icism  than  The  Girlhood  of  the  Virgin;  certainly,  whatever 
other  merits  his  subsequent  work  may  possess,  none  dwell 
in  such  an  atmosphere  of  light.  There  is  great  severity, 
rigidity  in  form,  but  the  excellence  of  the  three  colours  of 
pre-Raphaelitism  would  nullify  still  more  serious  draw- 
backs. Mr.  Ruskin  refers  to  it  as  differing  from  every 
previous  conception  of  the  scene  known  to  him,  in  repre- 
senting the  angel  as  awakening  the  Virgin  from  sleep  to 
give  her  his  message;  but  in  his  subsequent  remarks  as  to 
the  angel's  non-rccognizability  as  such,  "  not  depending  for 
recognition  of  his  supernatural  character  on  the  insertion  of 
bird's  wings  at  his  shoulders,"  or  in  being  "  neither  trans- 
parent in  bodv,  luminous  in  presence,  nor  auriferous  in  ap- 
parel,"  he,   while    noting  the   pale  yellow  flames  about  his 


244  ECCE  ANCILLA  DOMINI 

feet,  surely  forgot  to  note  the  aureole  that  radiates  round 
his  head — though  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  that  he  re- 
ferred only  to  personal  and  not  to  external  signs.  The 
Virgin,  clothed  in  white,  is  sitting  up  in  her  white  pallet- 
bed  and  reclining  forward  with  eyes  awestruck  with  the 
premonitory  dream  that  foretold  her  of  God's  will ;  she 
seems  to  look  backwards  into  the  mystery  that  came  to  her 
in  sleep  with  a  yearning  questioning  as  to  the  reality  or 
non-reality  as  affecting  herself,  and  forwards  into  the  dim 
future  with  the  awe  of  some  great  thing  she  can  yet  scarce 
comprehend  in  its  significance.  Unseen  to  her,  the  divine 
messenger  with  calm,  grave  face  and  clothed  simply  m 
white,  aureoled  and  upborne,  while  apparently  standing  on 
the  floor,  by  pale,  golden  flames  just  reaching  above  his 
feet,  stands  looking  at  her,  having  through  her  sleep  spake 
the  message  he  came  to  give ;  and  in  his  hand  is  a  stem 
bearing  Annunciation  lilies,  just  over  which  is  poised  in 
downward  flight  the  dove  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  In  front  of 
her  simple  pallet  there  is  an  upright  piece  of  crimson  cloth 
in  a  wooden  frame,  and  worked  downwards  in  it  a  very 
rigid  but  exactly  delineated  white  lily  branch ;  and  behind 
her  and  the  white  pillow  on  her  bed  there  is  a  light,  square 
curtain  of  deep  cerulean  blue,  exquisite  as  anything  not 
nature's  own  production  can  be.  To  the  left  of  this  cur- 
tain-screen there  is  the  semicircular  window-space,  where- 
through the  scented  air  can  enter  freely  ;  but  nothing  is 
visible  through  it  save  the  clear  blue  Syrian  morning  sky 
and  the  leafy  crown  of  a  single  palm.  On  the  ledge  of 
the  window,  above  Mary's   head,  is  a  lamp  with   a  flame 


ECCE  ANCILLA  DOMINI  245 

Still  burning,  but  seeming  quite  white  owing  to  the  clear 
subdued  radiance  of  fulfilled  dawn.  The  drawback  to  this 
otherwise  exquisite  piece  of  workmanship  is  its  prevailing 
angularity  and  uprightness,  in  the  angel,  in  the  embroidery- 
screen,  in  the  curtain,  and,  in  Mr.  Ruskin's  words,  in  "  the 
severe  foreshortening  of  the  Virgin  herself"  ;  though  at  the 
time  of  its  exhibition  this  was  a  minor  matter  compared  to 
the  heresy  of  deviation  from  sacred  tradition  in  r^  represen- 
tation of  angels  and  madonnas,  and  from  the  traditional 
choice  of  time  and  surroundings  for  the  Annunciation,  as 
also  in  its  realistic  tendencies.  I  confess  I  can  only  par- 
tially agree  with  Mr.  Ruskin  in  considering  the  Ecce  Jncilla 
Domini  a  realistic  representation  of  what  actually  did  occur 
in  the  dwelling  of  the  Nazarine  carpenter,  for,  though 
doubtless  succeeding  better  in  this  than  those  "jewellers  of 
the  fifteenth  century,"  who  set  the  example  that  became 
stereotyped,  the  room,  with  its  screen  and  embroidery  and 
other  surroundings,  cannot  well  be  regarded  as  a  prob- 
able representation  of  the  very  humble  abode  and  correspond- 
ing method  of  life  we  are  taught  and  infer  from  Biblical 
and  secular  history  as  likely  to  appertain  to  a  poor  carpen- 
ter in  a  poor,  if  naturally  well-provided,  district.  But 
these,  after  all,  are  minor  points,  and  are  forgotten  or  put 
aside  when  looking  at  the  pure  colours  and  the  solemn  sig- 
nificance of  this  most  lovely  and  memorable  picture.  Its 
motif  was  given  in  the  same  sonnet  as  was  printed  in  the 
catalogue  recording  The  Girlhood  of  the  rirgin^  of  which 
picture  it  is  indeed  a  successor;  so  that  while  the  first  two- 
thirds    of   the    sonnet    may   be   taken    as  applicable  to  the 


246  ECCE  ANCILLA  DOMINI 

earlier  work,  the  concluding  three  and  a  half  lines  refer  tG 
the  Annunciation  : — 

«* .      .      .     Till  one  dawn,  at  home 
She  woke  in  her  white  bed,  and  had  no  fear 
At  all, — yet  wept  till  sunshine,  and  felt  awed'; 
Because  the  fulness  of  the  time  was  come." 


-:> 


\  fi^^r-'-^^^i] 


CARDINAL  RICHELIEU  ,.  ^ 

{^Philippe  de  Champaigne) 

GUSTAVE    LARROUMET 

THE  greatest  minister  of  the  old  regime^  the  first  of  our 
statesmen  who  did  not  reign,  the  founder  of  the 
Acad'emie  Fran^aise  and  the  restorer  of  the  Sorbonne,  has 
not  been  praised  in  literature  for  a  long  time.  Poets,  nov- 
elists, and  historians  are  equally  severe  upon  the  Cardinal 
de  Richelieu.  His  will  hovers  over  Victor  Hugo's  Marion 
de  Lorme  like  a  nightmare  of  cruelty  ;  the  reflection  of  his 
red  robe  illuminates  the  drama  with  a  sinister  light;  and  in 
the  last  act,  the  terror  of  the  denouement  is  obtained  by  his 
pitiless  voice  letting  the  words  "  No  mercy  !  "  fall  from  his 
litter,  while  Marion  expresses  the  popular  horror  of  the  sin- 
ister procession  by  crying  : 

"  Regardez-tous  !  viola  rhomme  rouge  qui  passe  !  " 

Alfred  de  Vigny  sacrifices  Richelieu  to  the  equivocal  and 
brilliant  Cinq-Mars.  Between  politics  working  to  make 
France  and  rashness  inspired  by  vanity,  he  is  unjustly  se- 
vere towards  the  former,  and  unnecessarily  lenient  towards 
the  latter.  If  the  good  Dumas  did  not  treat  Richelieu 
with  the  same  gracefulness  as  he  did  Mazarin,  ami  if  he 
did  not  go  so  far  as  to  disguise  tnis  great  Frenchman  as  a 
puppet  of  the  Italian  comedy,  he  made  his  d'Artagnan 
laugh  at  him. 


248  CARDINAL  RICHELIEU 

Michelet  is  too  great  an  historian  not  to  admire  the 
grand  man  and  his  work,  but  he  does  not  like  him.  In 
the  superb  portrait  which  he  spreads  across  two  volumes 
of  his  Histoire  de  France.^  he  passes  from  admiration  to 
invective,  and  from  his  greatest  eulogies  to  his  gravest 
accusations.  He  is  possessed  by  this  commanding  figure, 
and  is  divided  between  personal  antipathy  and  the  superior 
wish  to  render  justice.  If  he  shows  the  visible  grandeur 
of  his  soul  and  his  powerful  will,  the  immensity  of  his 
labour  and  the  sinister  dignity  of  his  attitude,  he  judges 
him  "  a  knave  of  genius,  who  originated  our  vain  Euro- 
pean balance  and  the  equilibrium  between  the  dead." 

It  is  because  Richelieu,  ill-treated  by  his  contemporaries 
for  having  subordinated  private  interests  to  those  of  the 
king  and  of  France,  entered  into  modern  literatuie  at  a 
singularly  unfavourable  moment  for  him.  He  represented 
the  old  regime  and  authority  in  the  eyes  of  a  period  that 
had  founded  the  new  order  and  adored  liberty ;  he  was  the 
incarnation  of  mature  age  and  judgment  grappling  with 
youth  and  love ;  and  he  united  in  his  personality  all  that 
the  romantic  lyrism  did  not  like,  notably,  the  sacrifice  of 
the  individual  for  the  State. 

Moreover,  each  one  of  those  who  from  1826  to  i860, 
have  made  him  act  in  fiction  or  history,  have  personal  feel- 
ings of  animosity  or  injustice  towards  him.  Victor  Hugo, 
after  his  youth  as  a  legitimist,  left  the  king's  cause  for  that 
of  the  people.  Vigny,  a  gentleman,  took  upon  himself  to 
revenge  the  French  nobility  upon  those  who  had  hurled 
down  the  pride  of  the  great.     To  Dumas,  Richelieu  was 


CAKI'INAI.    Itli   III   I.IKi; 


IV   l>K  (■|l*Mr4I<l!(lt. 


CARDINAL  RICHELIEU  249 

nothing  more  than  the  character  of  a  novel :  he  was  less 
"  sympathetic  "  with  him  than  he  was  to  a  "  Gascon  cadet," 
or  even  with  Anne  of  Austria,  amorous  queen  and  weak 
woman.  To  Michelet,  the  Cardinal  Due  de  Richelieu, 
was  a  nobleman  and  a  priest,  and  the  man  who  had  written  : 
"  All  politics  agree  that  if  the  people  were  too  free,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  constrain  them  within  the  rules  of 
their  duty."  All  of  these  think  that  he  wronged  literature, 
for  although  he  did  protect  and  pension  poets,  and  even 
honoured  Chapelain,  he  was  the  persecutor  of  the  Cid  and 
of  Corneille. 

The  recognition  due  to  Richelieu  from  men  of  letters 
was  only  slightly  marked  for  two  centuries  by  mere  con- 
ventional compliments  in  the  orations  pronounced  at  the 
Acad'emie  Fran^aise. 

But  note  that  justice  for  him  is  gradually  beginning.  In 
proportion  as  romanticism  loses  its  illusions  and  history 
grows  more  conscientious  in  its  methods, — this  slow  work 
will  be  to  his  advantage.  A  greater  retrospective  sense  of 
justice  for  old  pVance,  a  clearer  idea  of  the  gifts  and  labour 
made  by  the  Statesmen,  and  the  knowledge  of  his  original 
schemes  will  make  reparation  for  him.  At  this  mo- 
ment, he  is  popular  among  writers  and  a  monument  of 
truth  is  elevating  itself  in  his  honour.  In  his  discourse  on 
being  received  into  the  Acad'emie  Fran^aise  in  1875,  Alex- 
andre Dumas///,  took  sides  for  Richelieu  against  Corneille, 
and  his  paradox  contained  a  great  deal  of  truth.  In  1879, 
Rcnan  gave  himself  the  keen  pleasure  of  binding  into  his 
subject  the  academic  tradition  of  beginning  his  admission 


250  CARDINAL  RICHELIEU 

address  by:  "The  great  Cardinal  Richelieu."  In  1894, 
M.  Brunetiere  happily  seized  the  occasion  "  of  bringing 
into  his  academic  discourse  the  formerly  obligatory  eulogy." 
At  this  moment,  a  young  minister  who  is  preparing  a  history 
of  politics,  wishes  a  history  of  the  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
solid  and  complete,  of  sober  elegance  and  worthy  of  its 
double  subject,  Richelieu  and  France. 

Although  art  is  greatly  inferior  to  letters,  it  has  this  ad- 
vantage,— that,  dispensing  with  discussions  and  arguments, 
it  avoids  errors  of  judgment.  It  is  quite  sufficient  to  be 
truthful  and  to  represent  what  is  seen.  Maltreated  by  the 
novelists,  the  poets  and  the  historians,  Richelieu  has  re- 
ceived far  more  justice  from  the  sculptors  and  the  painters 
who  have  not  been  so  anxious  to  penetrate  into  his  soul  as 
they  have  simply  to  show  him  as  they  saw  him. 

While  he  was  living,  Warin  modelled  a  celebrated  bust 
of  him  and  engraved  a  medal  that  is  a  masterpiece.  Fifty 
years  after  his  death,  Girardon,  in  raising  to  him,  after 
Lebrun's  design,  the  pompous  tomb  upon  which  he  expires 
supported  by  Religion  and  mourned  by  History,  rendered 
him  a  somewhat  theatrical  homage,  but,  taking  it  all  in  all, 
worthy  of  his  memory. 

Notwithstanding  the  indifferently  expressed  character  of 
the  head,  Girardon  was  inspired  by  a  masterly  canvas, — the 
portrait  painted  by  Philippe  de  Champaigne,  which  is  to  be 
seen  in  the  Salon  carr'e  of  the  Louvre. 

Champaigne,  born  in  Brussels,  belongs  geographically  to 
the  Flemish  school.  However,  he  is  French,  for  he  de- 
veloped  in   our  country  and   is   filled  with   its   spirit }   he 


CARDINAL  RICHELIEU  25 1 

painted  French  models  in  the  French  style.  A  lover  of 
Port-Royal,  he  thought  and  felt  like  the  religious  recluses 
of  that  holy  house  ;  he  had  in  his  art  the  same  serious  in- 
tegrity, cautious  energy  and  moral  elevation  that  they  had 
in  literature.  His  painting  is  Jansenist,  but  with  more  ex- 
pressive vigour  than  these  moralists,  so  scornful  of  eclaty 
ever  deigned  to  show.  It  is  curious  to  note,  while  on  this 
subject,  that  the  same  strange  region  gave  to  France  two 
French  things — the  art  of  Philippe  de  Champaigne  and  the 
literature  of  Port-Royal. 

By  means  of  his  faith,  Champaigne  was  drawn  to  re- 
ligious painting,  and  his  reputation  forced  him  to  execute 
numerous  decorations  in  palaces  and  castles,  but  in  the 
depths  of  his  soul  he  was  a  realist,  a  lover  of  direct  truth, 
respectful  towards  nature,  and  tempering  his  joy  in  colour 
and  elegance  in  form  by  serious  thought  and  moral  dis- 
cipline. Thus  he  has  excelled  in  portraiture,  and  for  pos- 
terity his  value  lies  there.  His  principal  work  consists  of 
several  fine  Crucifixions,  in  which  imagination  and  wealth 
of  decoration  have  no  place,  and  that  series  of  portraits 
containing  his  two  masterpieces,  the  Two  Nuns  of  Port- 
Royal — Mere  Arnault  and  the  painter's  daughter — and 
Cardinal  Richelieu. 

Michelet  studied  the  latter  a  long  time,  and  its  contem- 
plation helped  him  in  tracing  his  portrait  of  the  great 
Cardinal.  With  vigorous  justice,  he  remarked  the  paint- 
er's merits,  and  praised  the  artist  for  '•'■  that  very  fine  colour, 
restrained  by  exact  truthfulness."  As  for  the  moral  im- 
pression,  he   has   simply   translated   what   the    portrait   ex- 


252  CARDINAL  RICHELIEU 

presses  itself,  for  he  speaks  of  that  "  sphinx  in  a  red  robe," 
that  "phantom  with  grey  beard,  fixed  grey  eye,  and  delicate, 
thin  hands."  The  spectator  sees  in  that  head  with  its  broad 
brow,  burning  eyes,  long  straight  nose,  lips  compressed  be- 
neath the  fine  moustache,  and  chin  pointed  by  the  goatee, 
only  genius,  will  and  sadness, — a  double  sadness  of  suffer- 
ing without  respite  and  labour  without  rest.  The  walking 
and  gliding  attitude  is  of  unequalled  nobility ;  the  gesture 
of  the  hand,  which  receives  and  commands,  is  an  ob- 
servation of  genius.  The  arrangement  of  the  folds  of  the 
red  robe  crossed  by  the  white  rochet  and  the  blue  cord  of 
the  Holy  Spirit,  is  noble  and  simple.  The  whole  picture 
is  a  symphony  m  red,  where  the  sheen  of  the  silk  and  the 
heaviness  of  the  cloth  produce,  in  their  balanced  tonality,  a 
learned  and  simple  harmony.  Never  has  the  most  brilliant 
and  pompous  of  colours  been  treated  with  a  more  sober  and 
masterly  strength. 

Midway  between  Clouet's  precision  and  Rigault's  rich- 
ness, the  art  of  Philippe  de  Champaigne  has  endowed  the 
French  school  with  a  series  of  portraits  in  which  perhaps 
the  most  essential  qualities  of  our  national  genius — accuracy 
and  decorum — fixed  the  spirit  of  a  time  and  state  of  the 
French  nation.  This  contemporary  of  Richelieu,  Corneille, 
and  Descartes  is  as  French  as  they  are. 


THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 
{Raphael) 

F.  A.  GRUYER 

IN  the  first  of  the  great  frescoes  painted  by  Raphael  at 
the  Vatican,  the  Virgin  appears  gloriously  seated  on 
the  right  of  Jesus  Christ  ruling  with  him  all  the  celestial 
hierarchies,  and  shedding  light  and  grace  upon  the  Church 
by  her  ministry  of  intercession.  We  may  almost  say, 
therefore,  that  Raphael  took  possession  of  the  Eternal  City 
in  the  name  of  the  Virgin.  That  Eucharist  upon  which  the 
Doctors  and  fathers  meditate ;  that  mystery,  an  image  of 
which  Zacharias  saw  in  the  "  wheat  of  the  elect,"  in  the 
"wine  that  makes  virgins  conceive,"  has  its  origin  in 
Mary.  "  Our  generation  in  the  bosom  of  the  Church  pro- 
ceeds from  the  spiritual  origin  of  Jesus  Christ  in  the  bosom 
of  a  virgin."  Thus  speaks  St.  Leo  the  Great,  and  it  is 
this  doctrine  that  is  developed  by  Raphael  in  the  Argument 
of  the  Holy  Sacrament.  This  sublime  page  is  the  most 
Christian  that  art  has  ever  conceived,  because  it  is  the  most 
penetrated  with  the  mystery  of  the  Trinity.  "  Before  the 
Mosaic  Law,"  says  Hugucs  de  Saint  Victor,  "  God  made 
known  his  existence  to  the  world  ;  under  the  Law,  his 
unity  ;  under  the  Gospel,  his  Trinity  ;  so  that  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  truth  might  increase  little  by  little."  Now,  the 
Virgin  completes  the  Trinity  in  its  work.     It  is  for  her  that 


254  THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 

this  mystery  is  produced  in  the  world.  Spouse  of  the 
Father,  it  is  before  her  also  that  the  Apostle  bows  when  he 
says :  "  I  bend  my  knees  unto  the  Father,  from  whom 
every  family  in  heaven  and  on  earth  is  named.  Mother  of 
the  Son,  by  virtue  of  the  Most  High  who  has  covered 
her  with  his  shadow,"  she  has  conceived  Jesus  in  time,  so 
as  to  give  the  elect  to  God  in  eternity.  Sanctuary  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,  she  is  the  tabernacle  in  which  the  Holy  of 
Holies  has  made  itself  pontiff  and  concentrates  in  herself 
the  eternal  love  of  which  the  Word  was  born.  In  his 
fresco,  Raphael  represents  the  Virgin  under  this  triple 
aspect :  he  associates  her  with  the  Trinity  by  pictorial  bonds 
that  appear  incorruptible,  and  confides  the  intelligence  of 
the  Eucharist  to  her  prayers.  Seated  upon  the  clouds  by 
the  Saviour's  side,  she  bows  humbly  before  him,  and  derives 
her  power  from  her  very  humility.  It  is  true  that  this 
figure  does  not  strictly  belong  to  our  subject,  but  it  seems 
to  detach  itself  from  its  frame  and  hover  before  us  at  the 
moment  when  Raphael  arrives  at  Rome  under  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  Virgin  in  Glory. 

During  the  first  three  years  of  his  residence  in  Rome, 
Raphael  was  entirely  absorbed  in  his  Segnatura  frescoes. 
From  time  to  time,  he  managed  to  steal  a  few  moments  to 
devote  them  to  more  intimate  labours  :  it  was  at  this  time 
doubtless  that  he  painted  the  portraits  of  Julius  II.,  the 
Marquis  Frederick  of  Mantua,  himself,  and  that  Margarita 
whom  he  has  immortalized  under  the  name  of  the  Forna- 
rina.  In  151 1,  the  works  of  the  first  Vatican  chamber 
were   completed ;  the   alliance   between   Science  and  Faith 


MA  |M>.S  N  A      I>l      I  <ll.|l>Nl), 


THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO  255 

was  concluded,  the  chain  of  tradition  was  mended,  all  its 
links  were  rivetted  so  as  to  defy  henceforth  all  the  efforts 
of  barbarianism.  Universally  admired,  Raphael  could  for  a 
moment  give  rein  to  less  solemn  though  not  less  elevated 
aspirations.  The  Jlban  Madonna^  the  Aldohrandlni  Ma- 
donna^ the  Aladonna  of  the  Diadem^  and  the  Holy  Family 
of  Loretto^  which  without  doubt,  belong  to  this  period;  seem 
rather  to  be  before  than  after  151 1.  It  is  to  15 11  also  that 
the  Foligno  Aladonna  belongs.  In  fact,  it  was  painted  for 
Sigismund  Conti,  who  died  Feb.  23,  15 12.  Since,  more- 
over, it  reveals  colour  leanings  that,  as  we  shall  see,  were 
not  unknown  to  Sebastiano  of  Venice,  it  is  certain  that  it  is 
posterior  to  the  Venetian  painter's  arrival  in  Rome.  Now, 
Sebastiano  having  been  called  to  Rome  by  Augustino  Chigi 
at  the  beginning  of  151 1,  it  results  that  the  Foligno 
Aladonna  must  have  been  painted  towards  the  close  of  that 
year.  The  Contis  of  Anagni  had  given  one  pope.  Inno- 
cent III.,  to  the  Church,  and  since  that  time  had  fixed 
their  abode  in  Rome,  where  they  had  not  ceased  to  afford 
magnificent  patronage  to  the  ans.  Sigismund  Conti,  who 
belonged  to  this  illustrious  house,  was  born  at  Foligno,  in 
the  first  half  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  and  devoted  himself 
particularly  to  letters.  In  particular,  he  had  written  a  his- 
tory of  his  own  times,  and  Raphael's  father,  Giovanni  Santi, 
in  his  dedicatory  epistle  to  the  Duke  of  Urbino,  names  him 
as  a  distinguished  writer.  Having  become  secretary  under 
Julius  II.,  he  occupied  a  high  position  in  the  pontifical 
court  at  the  moment  when  Sanzio  arrived  at  Rome.  In 
151 1, Sigismund  Conti  was  getting  very  old,  and  the  disease 


256  THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 

that  was  to  carry  him  off  already  tormented  him.  Desiring 
to  offer  an  ex-voto  to  the  Virgin,  he  applied  to  Raphael. 
Let  us  see  with  what  simplicity  of  genius  Raphael  carried 
out  the  donor's  wishes. 

In  the  opening  skies,  the  Virgin  and  the  Infant  Jesus 
appear  in  the  middle  of  a  circle  glittering  with  light,  outside 
of  which  an  innumerable  company  of  angels  is  thronging. 
On  the  earth,  transfigured  by  the  radiation  of  the  eternal 
beams,  the  donor  contemplates  the  divine  vision,  in  com- 
pany with  St.  John  the  Baptist,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  and 
St.  Jerome,  who  are  recommending  his  prayers  to  the 
Virgin  and  Saviour.  One  angel,  detached  from  the  celes- 
tial train,  also  adds  his  voice  to  those  of  the  saints,  and 
holds  a  tablet  on  which  was  to  be  mentioned  the  destina- 
tion of  the  picture. 

That  is  the  motive  repeated  a  thousand  times  for  more 
than  two  centuries  by  the  Italian  Renaissance.  Raphael 
takes  possession  of  it  in  his  turn  and  does  not  break  with 
the  past  in  the  least ;  but  if  he  adopts  all  its  traditions,  it  is 
only  on  condition  of  elevating  and  reconciling  them. 
Without  making  any  pretense  at  new  systems,  he  purifies 
and  reconciles  the  strayings  of  the  o'J  schools  as  well  as 
the  impatient  aspirations  of  contemporary  masters.  Great 
audacities  were  forming  around  him ;  but  he  took  care  not 
to  imitate  them.  Whatever  is  truly  inspired  with  the 
Spirit  of  God  is  simple,  and  so  Raphael  approaches  his  sub- 
ject with  entire  simplicity.  The  greatest  homage  we  can 
render  to  liberty  is  to  submit ;  and  so  Raphael  finds  the 
most  complete  independence  in  submission.     He  honours 


THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO  257 

the  Virgin  as  much  as  he  adores  the  Infant  Jesus.  For 
him,  "  Mary  is  the  cause  of  safety  for  the  whole  human 
race."  God  only  pardons  us  through  the  merits  of  his  Son 
who  never  hears  us  better  than  through  the  voice  of  His 
Mother.  Such  is  the  Catholic  doctrine  of  which  Raphael 
was  an  indefatigable  interpreter  through  every  period  of  his 
life.  And  not  satisfied  with  not  departing  in  any  way 
from  the  strictest  orthodoxy,  he  preserves  even  the  tradi- 
tional arrangement  of  form.  At  the  top  and  in  the  centre, 
the  Virgin  dominates  the  whole  composition.  At  the  base, 
and  on  either  side,  the  donor  and  the  saints  are  grouped 
symmetrically  in  pairs.  On  the  left,  St.  John  the  Baptist 
is  standing  and  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  is  kneeling  in  front  of 
him;  on  the  right,  St.  Jerome  corresponds  to  St.  John,  and 
Sigismund  Conti  to  St.  Francis.  These  four  figures  that 
are  endowed  with  adorable  mastery  of  expression  balance 
and,  without  any  loss  of  power,  contribute  to  an  identical 
resultant.  Animated  with  the  same  love  and  the  same 
faith,  they  seem  to  be  already  transported  into  the  celestial 
realms  and,  although  they  still  touch  the  earth,  they  domi- 
nate it  from  the  same  point  of  view  whence  the  eagle  sees 
it  aloft  in  the  air.  Penetrated  with  an  ardent  and  generous 
flame,  this  picture  speaks  to  our  imagination  as  much  as  to 
our  emotions.  Gazing  at  it,  we  recall  the  words  of  Isaiah  : 
"  Distil,  ye  heavens,  from  above,  and  let  the  skies  pour 
down  righteousness  :  let  the  earth  open  that  it  may  bring 
forth  salvation,  and  let  it  cause  righteousness  to  spring  up 
together  !  "  How  did  Raphael  find  some  of  the  noblest 
accents   of  religious   speech    in    this   picture?      By   what 


258  THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 

power  did  he  rise  to  the  antique  simplicity  of  the  Scrip- 
tures ?  That  is  what  each  of  the  parts  of  this  admirable 
whole  will  teach. 

The  Virgin,  sitting  on  the  clouds  and  holding  her  Son  in 
her  arms,  hovers  over  "  the  saints  and  the  household  of 
God."  In  consequence  of  a  surprising  knowledge  of  the 
subject  and  a  marvellous  grasp  of  aerial  perspective,  she 
seems  to  be  at  a  great  height,  when  she  is  really  almost  on 
the  level  of  the  earth,  so  that,  notwithstanding  the  neces- 
sarily very  restricted  limits  of  the  picture,  we  fancy  we  see 
the  heights  whence  benediction  falls.  Without  lowering 
herself,  Mary  seems  to  want  to  place  herself  on  our  level  j 
the  saints  who  are  praying  to  her,  and  the  donor  who  is 
imploring,  could  almost  touch  her  with  their  hands,  and  yet 
we  feel  that  their  souls  alone  can  reach  her.  Mother  of 
the  living,  she  yet  remains  the  Queen  of  the  angels  who 
saluted  her  upon  earth  and  afterwards  carried  her  into  the 
highest  heaven.  Her  head,  gently  bending  over  her  left 
shoulder,  is  draped  with  a  veil  that  falls  along  her  right 
cheek  and  is  raised  by  the  Infant  Jesus  at  her  left  cheek. 
This  veil  is  at  the  same  time  very  soft  and  very  rich  in 
tone  :  it  is  of  a  yellowish  white,  shaded  with  blue  reflec- 
tions, and  the  reverse  is  of  red  embroidered  with  gold, 
being  most  noticeable  above  the  Saviour's  head.  Covering 
the  Virgin's  hair  without  entirely  hiding  it,  this  alone 
forms  the  most  humble  and  most  beautiful  of  ornaments, 
for  to  chastity  it  adds  an  incontestable  element  of  beauty. 
Two  blonde  bands  crown  the  forehead,  which  is  pure,  in- 
telligent   and    well    formed.      The    brows   are   admirably 


THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO  259 

arched.  The  sweet  and  sad  eyes  are  lowered  upon  the 
Word  and  combine  in  the  same  thought  the  love  of  the 
Christ  and  the  love  of  mankind.  The  nose  is  very  well 
drawn.  The  mouth  is  of  medium  size  and  almost  of  a 
grieving  expression.  The  whole  face  ver)'  clearly  indicates 
the  painter's  meaning.  The  Virgin  is  there  as  the  interme- 
diary between  man  and  God,  at  the  same  time  reflecting 
human  suffering  and  divine  splendour.  The  vesture  is  one 
of  rigorous  chastity  ;  for  a  robe  of  beautiful  clear  red,  and  a 
mantle  of  almost  equally  clear  blue  form  the  whole.  The 
robe,  very  modestly  cut,  leaves  the  neck  bare  to  the  begin- 
ning of  the  shoulders,  and  severely  envelops  the  breast  and 
arms ;  the  bodice  is  trimmed  with  a  gold  embroidery  that 
gives  a  truly  roval  appearance  to  that  humble  purple. 

From  the  pictorial  point  of  view,  the  Infant  in  the 
FoUgno  Madonna  is  in  perfect  accord  with  his  Mother:  he 
is  held  to  her  by  the  strictest  bonds  and  seems  almost  to 
form  one  with  her;  but  he  remains  more  exclusively  than 
she  confined  within  the  domains  of  sensible  form,  aruJ  does 
not  at  once  arouse  that  great  idea  of  Godhead  that  Ra- 
phael is  soon  to  give  its  highest  expression  in  the  Sistinc 
Madonna.  As  yet  we  are  only  in  151 1,  and  before  arriv- 
ing at  that  summit  we  shall  find  several  intermediate  stages 
where  we  shall  have  again  to  halt. 

The  Infant  Jesus  has  heard  the  pravcr  of  the  donor,  and 
hastens  to  meet  him.  His  arms  are  outstretched  and  with 
his  hands  he  opens  his  Mother's  veil.  Ready  to  spring 
forward,  he  is  held  back  only  by  the  red  scarf  that  girds  his 
body  and  is  held  by  the  Virgin's  right  hand.     His  right  leg 


7.60  THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 

is  bent  and  still  rests  upon  Mary's  left  knee,  while  his  left 
leg  is  advanced  and  already  touches  the  cloud.  This  little 
figure  is  of  rare  elegance ;  but  the  gesture  is  of  such  a  fa- 
miliar nature  as  to  injure  the  sentiment  of  Divinity.  The 
head  is  only  beautiful,  and  we  could  wish  for  something 
more.  We  should  like  to  see  in  it  some  of  that  compas- 
sion, that  grief  and  that  kindness  that  give  such  a  touching 
character  to  the  features  of  the  Virgin. 

Above  the  clouds  that  form  the  aerial  throne  of  the 
Virgin,  and  beyond  the  circle  of  golden  light  surrounding 
the  divine  group,  the  eye  loses  itself  in  the  midst  of  a  glory 
formed  by  a  gathering  of  the  most  beautiful  angels.  These 
mysterious  infants  that  throng  around  the  Virgin  and  the 
Word  swim  in  an  atmosphere  of  an  inexpressibly  soft  azure. 
Some  are  pushing  aside  the  clouds,  to  get  a  better  view  of 
the  divine  spectacle ;  others  give  themselves  up  to  prayer, 
or  abandon  themselves  to  ecstasy  ;  some,  with  closed  eyes, 
seem  in  their  sleep  to  be  visited  by  celestial  dreams  ;  and 
others  are  embracing  one  another  in  fervour  and  love. 
These  admirable  infants  appear  to  be  penetrated  with  "  the 
divine  light  that  glows  upon  the  whole  of  Nature." 

Of  the  four  personages  here,  who  place  earth  in  commu- 
nication with  heaven,  the  first,  St.  John  the  Baptist,  points 
out  the  way ;  the  second,  St.  Francis  d'Assisi,  seeks  by 
means  of  love  to  interest  God  Himself  in  our  misery  ;  the 
third,  St.  Jerome,  directly  presents  the  fourth,  who  is  the 
donor,  to  the  Virgin  and  her  Divine  Son. 

St.  John  the  Baptist  is  there  as  sent  by  God.  "  The 
same  came  for  witness,  that  he  might  bear  witness  of  the 


THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO  26 1 

light,  that  all  might  believe  through  him."  With  his  left 
hand  raised  to  the  level  of  his  shoulder,  "  the  illustrious 
citizen  of  the  desert "  (in  the  words  of  St.  John  Chry- 
sostom)  holds  a  long  and  slender  cross,  upon  which  he 
leans,  and  points  the  first  finger  of  his  right  hand  at  Jesus, 
"the  same  was  in  the  beginning  with  God."  His  face  is 
full,  and  while  the  left  side  is  in  high  light,  the  right  is 
bathed  in  transparent  shadows.  His  eves,  fixed  upon  the 
spectator,  are  well  drawn,  and  full  of  fire,  penetration  and 
authority.  His  lips  are  very  expressive,  and  closed  though 
almost  speaking.  A  sparse  beard  covers  the  lower  part  of 
his  face  without  at  all  hiding  the  fine  modulations  of  his 
lips,  chin,  or  cheeks.  On  his  emaciated  face  glows  the 
internal  flame  of  a  soul  inspired  by  God.  In  the  Fore- 
runner, we  must  see  "the  last  and  greatest  of  the  prophets; 
the  first  and  greatest  of  the  apostles."  He  possesses  the 
Mosaic  austerity,  and  the  Christian  grace  and  suavity  :  he 
is  worthy  to  announce  the  religion  of  sacrifice  and  love. 
His  neck,  on  each  side  of  which  his  hair  falls,  stands  out 
well.  A  lamb's  fleece,  cut  like  a  tunic  and  slightly  blonder 
than  his  hair,  covers  his  shoulders  and  breast  and  descends 
to  his  knees.  As  a  foil  to  this  rustic  garment,  a  red  cloak, 
the  emblem  of  spiritual  sovereignty,  is  thrown  over  the  left 
shoulder.  In  all  this  figure,  there  is  something  rough  and 
savage  that  recalls  the  Dantescjue  image  :  this  is  "  the  great 
John,  who,  ever  saintly,  suffered  solitude,  martyrdom  and 
chains  for  two  years." 

St.    Francis  d'Assisi,   kneeling    in   front   of  St.  John  the 
Baptist,  is  at  the  apogee  of  his  terrestrial  vocation.     "This 


262  THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 

Sun  is  not  far  from  its  setting,  and  it  makes  the  earth  feel 
all  the  effects  of  its  great  virtue."  This  is  indicated  by 
"  the  stigmata  which  he  received  from  Christ  on  a  rugged 
rock  between  the  Tiber  and  the  Arno,  and  which  his  limbs 
bore  for  two  years."  This  is  particularly  shown  also  by 
that  emaciated  face  of  clear  and  almost  transparent  flesh 
tints,  radiating  with  pure  light  and  raised  towards  the  sky, 
the  splendours  of  which  it  seems  to  reflect.  The  head, 
seen  almost  in  right  profile,  is  shaven,  but  enough  hair  re- 
mains to  crown  the  brow  as  with  an  aureole.  The  eye, 
limpid  and  brilliant,  is  illumined  with  the  vision  it  con- 
templates ;  and  the  parted  lips  breathe  forth  the  divine 
trouble  that  possesses  the  entire  spirit.  Here  is  indeed  the 
gaze  intoxicated  with  God,  of  which  his  contemporaries 
speak.  As  for  the  body,  it  disappears  and  is  lost  in  the 
long  grey  robe  of  the  poor.  Francis  and  the  poor  loved 
one  another  more  from  day  to  day.  Holding  in  his  left 
hand  a  little  cross  which  he  raises  towards  Jesus,  he 
stretches  out  his  right  hand  towards  us  and  recommends  us 
to  the  Divine  kindness.  Here  he  is  in  one  of  those  ecstasies 
of  charity  that  were  the  joy  of  his  heart.  Raphael  has 
finally  parted  with  routine  and  convention.  He  has  broken 
with  the  traditional  type  that  up  to  that  time  he  had 
accepted.  There  is  nothing  in  this  figure  to  remind  us  of 
the  stereotyped  images  of  Perugino  or  any  quattrocentista. 
It  is  an  absolutely  new  and  original  creation.  Raphael  has 
placed  the  apostle  of  poverty  immediately  under  the  eye  of 
the  Infant  Jesus.  It  is  with  St.  Francis  above  all  that 
the  Word   is   in   communication   in   this  picture.     Their 


THE  MAX)ONNA  DI  FOLIGNO  263 

glances  meet ;  they  understand  each  other ;  and  the  saint, 
plunged  into  ecstasy,  is  in  complete  possession  of  his  God. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  V'irgin,  facing  St.  John  the 
Baptist,  St.  Jerome  is  standing,  presenting  the  donor  to  the 
Virgin.  He  wears  the  rich  costume  of  the  princes  of  the 
Church :  a  white  rochet,  that  shows  on  the  fore-arms,  a 
long  blue  cape  shading  into  a  neutral  tint,  with  a  broad 
amice  doubled  with  ermine  and  turned  down  upon  his 
breast.  All  this  is  conventional,  without  doubt,  and  the 
founder  of  the  religious  houses  at  Bethlehem  never  wore 
this  sumptuous  garbj  fond  of  mortification,  he  would  have 
disdained  these  adornments.  But  let  us  not  forget  that 
here  we  are  in  full  apotheosis  and  that  anything  that  con- 
tributes to  the  pomp  of  such  a  spectacle  is  not  only  allow- 
able but  advisable.  Moreover,  in  adopting  this  costume, 
Raphael  has  only  conformed  to  tradition,  and  has  drawn 
the  most  beautiful  pictorial  effects  from  it.  With  his 
right  arm  and  hand  extended  respectfully  towards  the 
Madonna,  St.  Jerome  lays  his  left  hand  familiarly  on 
Sigismund  Conti's  head.  His  features  are  marked  by 
nobility,  grandeur  and  beauty.  They  have  lost  their 
natural  ruggedness,  and  all  their  violence  is  purified  by 
a  divine  flame.  The  cranium,  completely  bald,  is  radi- 
ant with  light.  Through  the  eyes,  shadowed  by  heavy 
brows,  the  soul  soars  in  prayer ;  the  curves  of  the  lips 
assume  an  expression  of  great  sweetness;  and  on  this  (ace, 
furrowed  by  wrinkles  and  partly  covered  by  a  long  beard, 
there  is  room  for  nothing  but  kindness.  The  time  of 
.•struggle  is  over;  ardour  and  hatred  are  extinct;  the  friend 


264  THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 

of  Paula  and  Eustochium  is  in  possession  of  the  calm  o^ 
eternity,  and  the  lion  couched  at  his  feet  is  only  there  now 
to  recall  one  of  the  qualities  of  his  heart. 

As  for  Sigismund  Conti,  he  is  kneeling  in  left  profile  in 
front  of  his  patron  saint.  With  hands  clasped  on  a  level 
with  his  breast,  he  lifts  his  head  and  eyes  towards  the 
Virgin,  whom  he  contemplates  and  to  whom  he  prays. 
His  costume  is  the  same  as  that  still  worn  by  the  cameriere 
when  they  are  on  duty  in  the  Papal  chapel :  black  soutane 
trimmed  with  fur,  surmounted  by  a  long  red  pilgrim's  cape 
without  sleeves,  and  a  broad  amice,  the  ermine  of  which 
comes  over  the  shoulders  and  covers  the  breast.  It  is  only 
a  portrait;  but  what  a  portrait,  and  how  nature,  while 
keeping  within  her  province,  has  gained  in  nobility  and 
grandeur !  What  simplicity  of  attitude  and  physiognomy  ! 
How  easily  we  recognize  the  habits  and  functions  of  the 
individual,  and  read  his  character !  It  is  less  literal  than  a 
portrait  by  Holbein,  but  just  as  true.  The  features  are 
vigorously  accented;  the  cheeks  are  bony,  and  withered 
with  sickness  and  suffering ;  the  hair  is  flat ;  the  mouth  is 
large  and  fallen  in;  the  line  of  the  nose  is  prominent  and 
thin,  and  the  chin  juts  strongly.  But  these  discords  disap- 
pear in  a  harmony  superior  to  reality.  Far  from  being 
extinct,  the  eye  is  brilliant.  However,  between  the  donor 
and  the  saints  with  him,  Raphael  makes  us  feel  the  differ- 
ence that  separates  a  private  interest  from  a  general  idea. 
The  saints  are  already  living  in  Eternity,  where  they  repre- 
sent the  different  orders  of  virtue ;  the  donor  still  exists  only 
in  time,  where  he  dwells  subject  to  all  the  exigences  and 


THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO  265 

accidents  of  life.  However,  although  his  devotion  is  en- 
tirely personal,  it  is  so  simple,  so  naive,  and  so  true,  that  it 
already  hovers  in  the  higher  spheres.  Life  is  leaving  the 
donor;  and  not  being  able  to  retain  it,  he  implores  the 
Virgin  for  it.  Then,  thanks  to  the  intervention  of  the 
saints,  thanks  especially  to  Mary  and  the  Infant  Jesus, 
hope  opens  radiant  horizons  before  him  till  they  are  lost  to 
sight. 

Below  the  Virgin  and  the  Infant  Jesus,  and  between  St. 
John  the  Baptist  and  St.  Francis,  St.  Jerome  and  the  donor, 
a  full-face  angel  is  standing,  with  his  head  and  eyes  raised 
towards  the  Madonna.  With  both  hands,  he  holds  a  tablet 
the  inscription  of  which  has  long  disappeared,  if  it  was 
ever  written.  (No  author  makes  any  mention  of  it.)  In 
painting  this  little  figure,  Raphael  has  taken  pleasure  in 
displaying  all  the  contrasts  of  his  art.  The  beauty  of  the 
face,  the  purity  of  the  lines,  the  fervour  of  the  features,  the 
arrangement  of  the  hair  and  the  wings,  the  truth  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  nude,  the  strength  of  the  modelling,  the 
brilliance  of  the  light  and  the  harmony  of  the  chiaroscuro^ 
all  this  is  inimitable  and  adds  to  this  work,  which  is  other- 
wise so  complete  and  so  marvellous,  a  particularly  just  and 
sentimental  note.  "  Faith  and  innocence  are  found  only  in 
little  children,"  says  the  poet  on  seeing  the  angels  in  Para- 
disc  ;  and  Raphael  proves  this  every  moment.  Admirable 
from  the  pictorial  point  of  view,  from  the  religious  point  of 
view  this  angel  establishes  a  direct  and  palpable  relation 
between  the  heaven  whence  he  comes  and  the  earth  where 
he  is.     If  he    is   momentarily   among   men,  it   is  to  teach 


266  THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 

them  the  better  to  pray,  for :  "  Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes 
and  sucklings  thou  hast  perfected  praise." 

Lastly,  what  is  quite  as  marvellous  in  this  picture  is  the 
atmosphere  and  the  landscape.  The  sun  sheds  its  pure  and 
warm  rays  over  the  earth  transfigured  by  the  presence  of  the 
Virgin  and  the  Word.  From  the  blade  of  grass  and  the 
meadow  flower  dotting  the  foreground  to  the  summits  of 
the  far  horizon  and  even  up  to  the  sky,  all  is  full  of  the 
glory  of  God.  The  saints,  the  donor  and  the  angel  among 
them  stand  upon  ground  that  has  nothing  unreal  in  it ;  but 
beyond  the  foreground,  the  apotheosis  begins,  and  every- 
thing seems  to  be  bathed  in  an  ocean  of  azure.  The  eye 
then  loses  itself  among  ideal  meadows,  gently  undulating, 
furrowed  by  streams,  and  shadowed  by  tints  of  infinite 
sweetness.  On  these  meadows,  a  flock  of  sheep  is  led  by 
a  shepherd  ;  two  persons  are  in  conversation ;  and  a  knight 
is  travelling,  preceded  by  an  attendant.  Farther  away,  a 
city  piles  its  monuments,  its  shops,  its  temples  and  its  ruins, 
one  above  another.  Woods  add  to  the  mysterious  beauty 
of  this  city  which  nestles  against  the  sides  of  high  peaks, 
the  summits  of  which  are  lost  in  the  clouds.  The  rainbow, 
with  irised  fires,  serves  as  aureole  for  this  immensity,  in 
the  midst  of  which  the  vibrations  of  an  intense  light  make 
the  sweetest  and  most  brilliant  melodies  audible.  Creation, 
seized  with  sublime  emotion,  seems  to  be  in  ecstasy  before 
God.  Heaven  and  earth  unite  in  a  great  thanksgiving,  and 
we  fancy  we  hear  the  harps  of  gold  accompanying  the 
words  of  the  sixty-fourth  psalm. 

The  FoUgno  Madoyina  marks  a  special  place  in  Raphac'/i 


THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO  267 

career.  About  151 1,  new  influences  were  affecting  him, 
and  after  having  successively  assimilated  the  spirit  of  the 
masters  of  Urbino,  Perugia,  Bologna  and  Florence,  in  Rome 
we  find  him  taking  possession  of  the  Venetian  genius  and 
appropriating  its  brilliant  and  pompous  externals.  Had  he 
seen  some  of  the  works  of  Giorgione  ?  One  might  believe 
so  from  the  boldness,  freedom,  and  particularly  the  vigour 
of  his  brush.  In  any  case,  in  the  absence  of  the  paintings 
of  Giorgio  Barbarelli,  he  was  able  to  make  acquaintance 
with  those  of  Sebastiano  del  Piombo.  It  was  doubtless 
from  this  painter,  who  had  recently  arrived  in  Rome,  that 
he  borrowed  the  richness  of  the  flesh-tints,  the  splendour 
of  the  draperies,  the  softness  of  the  ambient  air,  the  grace, 
and  the  general  beauty  of  colour  that  render  the  Foligno 
Madonna  one  of  the  most  brilliant  works  of  the  Italian 
brush.  Would  Raphael  by  himself  have  attained  possession 
of  such  colour  ^  What  is  certain  is,  whilst  this  colour  recalls 
the  finest  Venetians,  it  is  yet  quite  individual  to  him.  Here, 
as  elsewhere,  he  has  proceeded  by  way  of  transformation 
and  complete  assimilation.  Not  Sebastiano,  nor  Giorgione, 
nor  anv  other  master  could  have  painted  this  picture. 

The  Madonna  painted  for  Sigismund  Conti  remained  at  first 
at  Rome  and  was  placed  over  the  high  altar  of  the  church  of 
Ara  Cocli,  at  the  summit  of  the  Capitoline  Hill.  On  May 
23d,  1 565,  one  of  the  descendants  of  the  donor,  the  nun  Anna 
Conti,  obtained  from  Pope  Pius  IV.  the  translation  of  this 
picture  to  the  convent  of  St.  Anne,  founded  at  Foligno  by 
the  Conti.  Carried  away  by  the  French,  at  the  end  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century,  this  masterpiece  arrived  at  Paris  in  a 


268  THE  MADONNA  DI  FOLIGNO 

deplorable  condition.  It  was  transferred  from  its  old  panel 
to  canvas  by  M.  Haquin,  and  restored  by  M.  Roser,  of 
Heidelberg.  In  1815,  the  celebrated  Madonna  returned  to 
Italy,  but  did  not  go  back  to  Foligno.  It  merely  retained 
the  name  of  the  little  Umbrian  town  in  which  it  had  so- 
journed for  two  hundred  and  thirty-two  years,  and  passed 
directly  from  the  Louvre  to  the  Vatican  palace. 


^ 


LAS  MENINAS  •; 

CARL  JUSTI 

THIS  great  picture,  at  all  times  regarded  as  the  master's 
most  renowned  work,  and  most  clearly  impressed 
with  the  stamp  of  his  genius,  is  strictly  speaking  a  portrait 
of  the  Princess  Margaret  as  the  central  figure  in  one  of  the 
daily  recurring  scenes  of  her  palace  life.  The  figure  agrees 
perfectly  with  the  Vienna  work  (No.  619),  only  it  is  painted 
with  more  fiery  rapidity,  and  the  blond  complexion  looks 
to  better  advantage  in  an  environment  treated  with  much 
dark  blue. 

Her  step-brother,  Don  Balthasar,  had  been  dealt  with  in 
a  somewhat  similar  way  in  the  Riding  School.  But  the 
daily  life  of  a  young  princess  offered  no  such  favourable 
scenes  to  the  artist  as  those  suggested  by  the  more  varied 
occupations  of  a  prince  fond  of  horsemanship  and  field 
sports.  Her  existence  was  passed  in  the  secluded  apart- 
ments of  the  Cuarto  de  la  Re'ina^  surrounded  by  all  the 
restrictions  of  a  relentless  Court  etiquette.  Madame  dc 
Motteville's  Memoirs  gives  us  an  account  of  a  visit  at  the 
threshold  of  the  Infanta  Maria  Theresa's  room:  "She  is 
waited  on  with  great  respect,  few  have  access  to  her,  and  it 
was  a  special  favour  that  we  were  allowed  to  linger  at  the 
door  of  her  chamber.  When  she  is  thirsty  a  menin  (maid) 
brings  a  glass  to  a  lady,  who  kneels  as  docs  also  the  mtnin  * 


270  LAS   MENINAS 

and  on  the  other  side  is  also  a  kneeling  attendant,  who 
hands  her  the  napkin ;  opposite  stands  a  Maid  of  Honour." 

The  passage  reads  almost  like  a  description  of  our  paint- 
ing. Here  the  central  figure  is  the  little  idol,  at  that  time 
in  her  fifth  year,  constantly  surrounded  by  ministering  elfs, 
by  trusty  Ariels  and  submissive  sprites ;  for  she  is  depicted 
as  the  chief  orb  of  a  sphere,  where  light  and  shade,  beauty 
and  deformity  harmoniously  combine  to  do  her  service. 

In  Spain  the  picture  bears  the  name  of  Las  Meninas^  not 
without  reason.  The  noble  damsels  were  at  any  rate  for 
the  Spaniards  the  most  attractive  of  all  the  figures,  but  they 
were  the  dark-eyed  daughters  of  their  race,  lovely  young 
blossoms  of  the  old  Castilian  stock.  For  this  office  in  the 
royal  family  beauties  were  specially  selected,  and  Madame 
d'Aulnoy  who  saw  them  in  the  year  1680,  calls  them 
"  fairer  than  Love  is  painted."  In  their  curtseying  and 
bending  of  the  knee  there  lurks  an  innate  grace  that  triumphs 
even  over  the  unsightly  costume  of  that  period. 

So  famous  was  the  painting  that  the  names  of  all  the 
figures  were  duly  recorded.  The  lady  kneeling  in  profile 
is  Dona  Maria  Agostina,  daughter  of  Don  Diego  Sarmiento  j 
she  holds  a  gold  salver  from  which  she  hands  the  princess 
the  water  in  a  red  cup  made  of  bucaro^  a  fine  scented  clay 
brought  from  the  East  Indies.  The  other  facing  her  and 
curtseying  slightly,  is  Dona  Isabel  de  Velasco,  daughter 
of  Don  Bernardino  Lopez  de  Ayala  y  Velasco,  Count  of 
Fuensalida.  She  grew  up  to  a  womanhood  of  rare  beauty, 
but  died  three  years  later. 

These  maids  of  honour  attended  on  the  queen  and  on 


LAS    MKMNAS. 


LAS    MENINAS  27 1 

the  princesses  from  their  infancy  to  the  time  when  they  as- 
sumed the  chapin^  or  slippers  worn  by  the  young  ladies. 
The  meninas  themselves  wore  low  shoes  and  a  kind  of 
high-heeled  sandals,  which  like  galoches^  were  worn  over 
the  others ;  both  in  the  palace  and  outside  they  went  with- 
out hat  or  cloak. 

On  the  right  and  more  to  the  front  of  Dona  Isabel,  are 
two  figures  of  quite  a  different  type,  who  form  in  the  fore- 
ground a  group  apart,  jointly  with  the  sculpturesque-look- 
ing mastiff  crouched  half  asleep  at  the  edge  of  the  frame ; 
for  these  playthings  are  after  all  themselves  mere  domestic 
animals  in  human  form.  With  the  Cerberus  at  the  thresh- 
old arc  naturally  associated  the  two  grotesque  figures  of 
Mari  Barbola  and  Nicolasico  Pertusato,  who  serve  to  com- 
plete our  master's  gallery  of  Court  dwarfs,  and  who  have 
suggested  Wilkie's  description  of  the  work  as  the  "  Picture 
of  the  Children  in  Grotesque  Dresses."  Pertusato  has 
planted  his  foot  on  the  dog,  as  if  to  remind  him  that  it  is 
unseemly  to  slumber  in  the  presence  of  royalty,  while  the 
other,  round  as  a  tub,  gives  the  spectator  a  full  view  of  her 
broad,  depressed,  almost  brutal  countenance. 

Farther  back,  in  the  gloom  produced  by  the  closed 
shutters,  two  Court  officials  are  conversing  with  bated 
breath — the  Senora  de  honor  Dona  Marcela  de  Ulloa  in 
the  convent  habit,  and  a  guardadamus  ("ladies'  guard"), 
whose  duty  it  was  to  ride  with  the  coaches  of  the  Court 
ladies  and  conduct  the  audiences.  Then  quite  in  the  rear 
at  the  open  door  stands  Don  Joseph  Nieto,  the  queen's 
quarter-master,  drawing  the  curtain  aside. 


272  LAS   MENINAS 

Such  a  grouping  as  this  can  have  resulted  only  by 
chance.  Such  everyday  scenes,  even  when  in  themselves 
suited  for  pictorial  treatment,  passed  unnoticed  because  of 
their  constant  occurrence,  unless  indeed  the  artist  be  a 
stranger.  Chance  alone,  which  Leonardo  da  Vinci  tells  us 
is  so  often  a  happy  discoverer,  could  have  here  detected 
the  materials  of  a  pictorial  composition.  It  happened  that 
on  one  occasion,  when  the  royal  couple  were  giving  a  sit- 
ting to  their  Court  painter  in  his  studio,  Princess  Margaret 
was  sent  for  to  relieve  their  Majesties'  weariness.  The 
light,  which,  after  the  other  shutters  had  been  closed,  had 
been  let  in  from  the  window  on  the  right  for  the  sitters, 
now  streamed  in  upon  their  little  visitor.  At  the  same 
time  Velasquez  requested  Nieto  to  open  the  door  in  the 
rear,  in  order  to  see  whether  a  front  light  also  might  be 
available. 

Thus  the  king  sat  there,  relieved  from  councils  and 
affairs  of  State,  and  yielding  to  his  paternal  feelings  in  the 
midst  of  the  family  circle.  Then  it  occurred  to  him,  being 
himself  half  an  artist,  that  something  like  a  pictorial  scene 
had  developed  before  his  eyes.  He  muttered:  "That  is  a 
picture  :  "  the  next  moment  the  desire  arose  to  see  this  per- 
petuated, and  without  more  ado  the  painter  was  at  work  on 
the  sketch  of  his  recuerdo  (memento).  In  the  case  of 
recuerdos  details  should  be  faithfully  recorded,  just  as  they 
ha'd  been  casually  brought  together. 

Hence  the  peculiar  character  of  the  composition,  which 
as  an  invention  would  be  inexplicable.  It  is,  so  to  say,  a 
tableau  vivant^  and  the  figures  might  certainly  have  been 


LAS   MENINAS  tJJ 

more  naturally  and  effectively  grouped  in  a  semi-circle 
about  the  canvas  on  the  easel.  But  they  were  not  in  fact 
at  the  moment  mingled  in  a  single  group;  the  royal  couple, 
although  invisible  to  the  observer,  were  in  the  immediate 
vicinity.  Thus  the  princess  while  taking  the  ^wr^r*?  glances 
towards  her  mother;  Dona  Isabel  looks  with  a  curtsey  in 
the  same  direction  ;  Mari  Barbola  hangs  with  the  eyes  of  a 
trusty  watch-dog  on  those  of  her  mistress  ;  X.\\c  guardadamas 
while  listening  to  Dofia  Alarcela's  whisperings  keeps  an 
eye  on  the  king;  lastly  Nieto  turns  at  the  door  with  an  in- 
quiring look. 

In  a  word  we  see  the  company  as  one  sees  the  audience 
in  the  pit  from  the  stage,  and  precisely  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  king,  who  is  reflected  in  the  mirror  in  the  wall 
by  the  side  of  the  queen.  He  had  seated  himself  opposite 
this  mirror  in  order  to  be  able  to  judge  of  his  posture.  It 
mav,  however,  be  incidentally  remarked  that  nothing  is 
known  of  any  work  in  which  he  appears  actually  on  the 
same  canvas  with  Mariana. 

In  this  instantaneous  picture  the  artist  himself  had  also 
of  course  to  be  taken.  He  stands  at  his  easel,  but  slightly 
concealed  by  the  kneeling  figure  in  front,  his  head  domina- 
ting the  whole  group.  In  his  right  hand  he  holds  the  long 
brush,  in  his  left  the  palette  and  painter's  stick.  The 
hand,  like  those  of  this  picture  generally,  is  exquisitely 
painted,  the  motion  (jf  the  fingers  being  distinctly  indicated 
by  four  strokes  of  the  brush. 

On  his  breast  he  wears  the  Red  Cross  of  Santiago. 
According  to  the  legend   Philip,  on   the  completion  of  the 


274  LAS  MENINAS 

painting,  had  reserved  a  royal  surprise  for  its  creator. 
Remarking  that  it  still  lacked  something,  he  seized  the 
brush  and  added  this  Red  Cross.  The  anecdote  has  been 
questioned,  because  the  preliminary  formalities  connected 
with  the  conferring  of  the  Order  date  from  two  years  later. 
But  although  according  to  Palomino  the  Cross  was  added 
by  order  of  the  king  after  Velasquez'  death,  it  may  still 
have  possibly  been  associated  with  the  work  at  the  time. 
Certainly  this  was  the  first  precedent  for  the  figure  of  a 
painter,  even  though  a  palace  marshal,  to  be  introduced  in 
a  canvas  depicting  the  intimate  family  circle  of  royalty. 
Hence  it  may  have  seemed  proper  for  him  also  to  be  pro- 
moted to  a  higher  degree  of  nobility  for  the  occasion. 

Such  might  seem  to  be  the  probable  history  of  the 
Meninas.  Here  is  consequently  the  apparent  paradox  that 
one  of  the  most  original  creations  of  modern  painting  is 
more  than  any  other  the  fac-simile  of  a  casual  incident. 
It  is  the  picture  of  the  production  of  a  picture.  The  sub- 
jects of  the  latter  are  kept  out  of  sight,  for  if  introduced 
they  would  have  to  turn  their  backs  on  the  observer; 
nevertheless  their  presence  is  betrayed  by  the  mirror.  The 
observer  sees  what  the  royal  couple  see,  not  what  the 
painter  sees,  for  he  would  see  his  meninas  in  a  mirror  hang- 
ing over  against  him.  And  it  is  quite  possible  that  he 
really  made  use  of  such  a  mirror. 

There  is  otherwise  a  superfluity  of  frames  in  the  picture 
— frames  of  the  mirror,  of  the  door,  of  the  easel,  many  (all 
these  black)  of  oil  paintings,  perhaps  those  copies  of  works 
by  Rubens,  the   Heraclitus  and  Democritus  and  the  Saturn 


LAS   MENINAS  275 

and  Diana,  which  according  to  the  inventories  hung  be- 
tween the  windows.  The  same  inventories  mention 
animal  paintings  and  landscapes  above  the  windows.  Yet 
no  picture  is  more  calculated  than  this  to  make  us  forget 
that  it  is  a  picture.  "•  Git  est  done  le  tableau?''^  asked 
Theophile  Gautier. 

This  passing  incident  would  naturally  have  at  first  been 
fixed  by  a  sketch.  This  sketch,  which  is  still  extant,  is  the 
only  undoubted  one  known  to  us  of  any  painting  carried  out 
by  the  master  on  a  large  scale.  And  even  this  perhaps  owes 
its  existence  to  the  circumstance  that  it  was  the  original 
intention  to  execute  the  work  in  more  modest  proportions. 

The  sketch,  which  in  Caen  Bermudez'  time  belonged  to 
Don  Gaspar  de  Jovellanos,  is  undoubtedly  the  same  that  is 
now  owned  by  Mr.  Banks  of  Kingston  Lacy  (size  56x48 
inches).  Its  accordance  with  the  large  canvas  is  almost 
complete.  Under  the  pigments  we  see  the  delicate  and 
distinct  lines  of  the  infanta's  oval  face,  of  her  eyes  and 
loose  hair,  drawn  with  a  pencil.  The  couple  in  the  mirror 
is  still  missing,  although  the  red  curtain  is  already  there. 

Regarding  this  sketch  the  most  diverse  views  have  been 
advanced.  The  thoughtless  and  jealous  declared  it  to  be  a 
copy.  VVaagen  {Treasures^  IV.,  581),  considered  it  incredi- 
ble that  such  a  spirited  work  (delicate  silver  tone,  clear 
deep  chiaroscuro)  could  be  a  copy,  and  even  a  greatly  re- 
duced copy.  At  the  cxhihiticjii  in  Burlington  House  (1864) 
it  was  pronounced  to  be  an  (original  sketch.  On  that  occa- 
sion the  opitiion  was  expressed  i^Athenttum  I.,  811)  that 
Velasquez  made  this  sketch  for  the  purpose  of  securing  the 


276  LAS  MENINAS 

king's  approval,  and  thus  obtain  his  sanction  to  execute  it 
on  a  large  scale  as  something  unique  in  portrait-painting. 

In  the  sketch,  where  ground  colours  prevail,  the  light 
seems  to  fall  somewhat  less  abruptly  ;  the  black  figure  of 
the  artist,  who  already  wears  his  decoration,  stands  out 
more  conspicuously  between  the  bright  and  coloured  figures, 
while  the  ceiling  with  its  greenish  grey  tone  and  the  yellow 
floor  is  more  distinct. 

That  such  a  picture  should  be  due  to  a  momentary 
fancy  was  naturally  owing  to  the  circumstance  that  the 
material  accidentally  presented  to  the  painter  was  specially 
calculated  to  stimulate  his  peculiar  powers,  reviving  the 
memory  of  the  motives  in  the  works  he  most  admired,  such 
as  Tintoretto's  Marriage  of  Cana  with  the  sunlight  falling 
sideways  on  the  fair-haired  heads,  and  his  Washing  of  the 
Feet  with  its  marvellous  perspective  display. 

Assuredly  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  dogma  that  relief  is  "  the 
soul  of  painting,"  that  *'  the  beauty  and  first  wonder  "  of 
this  Art  lies  in  the  appearance  of  the  figure  raised  and 
detached  from  the  surface,  has  never  been  more  convin- 
cingly understood,  adhered  to  with  more  force  of  learning, 
more  approv'ngly  admired  in  all  its  accuracy  by  artists  and 
non-professionals  alike,  than  in  this  work.  Waagen  re- 
marked that  one  here  seems  to  observe  Nature  as  in  a 
camera  obscura ;  to  Stirling-Maxwell  it  looked  like  "  an 
anticipation  of  Daguerre's  invention  "  ;  Mengs  calls  it 
''  the  proof  that  the  perfect  imitation  of  Nature  is  some- 
thing that  equally  satisfies  all  classes  of  observers." 

The  nine  figures  of  which  scarcely  two  occupy  the  same 


LAS   MENINAS  277 

perspective  depth,  are  each  toned  according  to  their  respect- 
ive positions,  and  modelled  in  the  continually  shifting 
accidents  of  the  light  effects.  The  light  falls  fullest  on 
the  princess,  radiating  back  from  the  white  satin  and  golden 
blond  complexion.  Other  figures  are  distributed  between 
light  and  shade  ;  others  again  are  completely  plunged  in  the 
gloom,  and  as  at  first  a  light  figure  stands  on  a  dark  ground, 
at  last  a  dark  figure,  little  more  than  a  silhouette-^  stands 
against  the  clear  sunlight. 

The  strongly  foreshortened  wall  with  the  three  rows  of 
pictures  one  above  the  other  helps  to  measure  the  space. 
The  obtrusive  monotonous  reverse  of  the  large  easel-piece 
serves  to  conveniently  disturb  the  sense  of  an  apparently 
studied  arrangement  of  the  composition,  and  thus  aids  the 
illusion.  Then  the  dim  empty  space  above  the  groups, 
occupying  far  more  than  half  of  the  canvas,  lends  anima- 
tion to  the  groups  themselves  by  the  force  of  contrast. 
Here  also,  where  he  had  a  free  hand,  we  see  how  at  last 
Velasquez  studied  the  just  relation  between  the  height  of 
the  figures  and  that  of  the  whole. 

To  prevent  the  surface  of  the  background  from  closing 
in  abruptly  and  confining  the  eye  the  dark  wall  opposite 
was  broken  through  in  two  different  ways.  In  the  treat- 
ment of  this  motive  Velasquez,  as  well  as  his  pupil  Murillo, 
came  in  contact  with  Peter  de  Hooghe,  the  greatest  con- 
temporary painter  of  sunlight.  I'he  open  door  lets  the 
daylight  in  and  reveals  the  sunshine  outside.  Thc-n  the 
mirror  brings  in  a  measure  on  to  the  scene  the  perspective 
depth  towards  the  rear  as  well  as  the  forward  depth. 


278  LAS  MENINAS 

The  mirror  plays  this  part  also  in  De  Hooghe's  works,  as 
in  the  Pianist  in  the  Van  der  Hoop  Museum.  Nor  should 
the  blank  space  be  overlooked  in  the  mirror  itself  in  the 
left  corner  below. 

Light  and  shade  mutually  aid  each  other.  A  sunlight 
such  as  that  streaming  in  through  the  door  has  a  dazzling 
effect ;  this  rectangular  white  patch  affects  us  so  overpower- 
ingly  that  we  take  the  vagueness  of  the  objects  on  the  wall 
(for  instance,  those  undistinguishable  oil-paintings,  copies 
of  Ruben's  Mythologies,  amongst  others  apparently  the 
Jpollo  and  Marsyas)  as  the  effect  of  the  glare,  and  accord- 
ingly estimate  the  intensity  of  that  light  as  much  stronger 
than  any  colours  could  produce.  Here  not  only  are  the 
objects  painted,  but  the  artist  has  also  depicted  the  very 
strain  of  the  eye  to  discern  them  through  the  gloom.  In  a 
good  light  the  groups  appear  veiled  as  if  with  a  delicate 
luminous  gossamer  web.  This  is  due  to  that  dispersion  of 
the  radiations,  which  is  caused  by  the  proximity  of  a  strong 
light  over  a  dimly  illumined  space. 

All  this  dawns  only  gradually  on  the  eye.  Few  pictures 
demand  such  a  continuous  study,  the  more  so  that  at  first 
the  attention  is  too  much  absorbed  in  the  wonderful  figures 
themselves.  As  is  often  the  case  with  Rembrandt,  we 
fancy  at  first  that  we  see  nothing  but  colourless  gloom  in- 
terspersed with  a  few  luminous  oases.  But  as  we  linger  a 
mysterious  life  seems  to  stir  on  the  surface  ;  the  vagueness 
clears  up.  grows  distinct ;  the  colours  come  out ;  one  figure 
after  another  emerges  in  relief;  nay,  some  seem  even  to 
turn,  the  features,  the  eyes  appear  to  move.     The  golden 


LAS   MENINAS  279 

frame  becomes  a  setting  for  a  magic  mirror  which  annihi- 
lates the  centuries,  a  telescope  for  distance  in  time,  reveal- 
ing the  spectral  movements  of  the  inmates  of  the  old 
palace  over  two  hundred  years  ago.  In  this  picture  the 
ideal  of  the  historian  has  become  truth  and  reality. 

And  with  what  expedients  has  all  this  been  realized  ? 
when  the  eye  is  brought  close  to  the  surface,  we  are 
amazed  at  their  simplicity.  The  picture  is  broadly  painted, 
as  if  with  reckless  haste,  on  a  coarse  canvas  with  long 
bristly  brush,  although  of  all  his  works  it  produces  the 
softest  and  most  tranquil  impression.  In  no  other  are  the 
processes  laid  so  completely  bare.  In  the  shadows  we  dis- 
tinguish the  brown  parts  of  dead  colouring  rubbed  in  ;  the 
grey  surfaces  in  white  blends  applied  over  this  ground ; 
the  local  colours  and  lights  in  one  place  dashed  off 
with  rich,  angular,  formless  touches,  in  another  softly 
blended. 

The  figures  are  formed  with  such  broad  grey  touches, 
and  then  full  bodily  substance  and  the  pulse  of  life  are  im- 
parted to  their  still  dim  existence,  often  with  a  few  sharp 
strokes.  The  local  colouring  is  kept  in  reserve,  the  artist 
operating  chiefly  by  means  of  light  and  shade  ;  a  deadened 
greenish  blue,  dark  green,  or  white  is  lightly  applied  above, 
while  here  and  there  small  red  patches  come  to  the  front. 
The  secret  lies  in  that  thin  superposition  of  dark  on  light, 
light  on  dark,  unblinded,  hovering  one  above  the  other,  the 
outlines  receiving  an  appearance  of  quivering  motion  by 
broad  brown  strokes  of  the  brush  as  if  stippled.  But  the 
essential   point   is   the   nuances   improvised   on   the   spur  of 


28o  LAS  MENINAS 

the  moment,  by  the  fire  of  the  hand  struggling  with  the  im- 
pression of  the  eye. 

Peculiar  to  Velasquez'  genius  was  this  delicate  sensitive- 
ness to  the  differences  of  the  chiaroscuro^  and  the  processes 
by  which  Nature  models.  He  saw  what  no  one  had 
hitherto  seen.  But  does  not  the  true  artist  always  find  the 
means  to  effect  his  purpose,  this  being  the  special  privilege 
of  genius  ?  An  artist  possessing  the  receipts  for  every 
trick  of  Titian's  or  Rembrandt's  brush  would  still  make 
nothing  of  them  without  their  eye. 

The  earliest  known  remark  on  this  painting  is  that  of 
the  Italian  Luca  Giordano,  who  is  said  to  have  observed  to 
Charles  II.:  "Sire,  this  is  the  theology  of  painting!" 
What  are  we  to  understand  by  this  enigmatical  expression  ? 
It  is  scarcely  to  be  supposed  that  he  thereby  meant  to  pro- 
nounce it  "  the  first  in  the  world,  as  theology  is  the  fore- 
most of  the  sciences,"  as  a  Spanish  commentator  inter- 
preted the  saying.  To  a  Frenchman  it  occurred  that  the 
point  of  comparison  lay  in  its  *'  subtlety."  For,  "  what  in 
fact  is  more  subtle  than  theology  and  the  impalpable  air, 
although  itself  touching,  and  enveloping  all  things " 
(Thore,  Salons^  I,,  225). 

One  might  fancy  he  wished  to  single  out  the  work  as  a 
standard  for  the  treatment  of  relief  and  chiaroscuro^  just  as 
Polycletus'  Lance-bearer  was  accepted  as  the  "  Canon  "  of 
proportions.  But  in  that  case,  why  did  not  Giordano  use 
the  word  philosophy  rather  than  theology^  as  did  Lawrence  in 
his  letter  to  Wilkie  of  November  27,  1827:  "In  all  the 
objects  and   subjects  of  his  pencil  it  is  the  true  philosophy 


LAS   MENINAS  28 1 

of  Art — the  selection  of  essentials — of  all  which,  first  and 
last,  strikes  the  eye  and  senses  of  the  spectator."  The- 
ology is  the  science  of  revealed  truth  in  contra-distinction 
to  that  acquired  by  the  natural  powers  of  the  understand- 
ing. Hence  the  point  of  comparison  would  seem  to  lie  in 
the  directness,  the  inspired  character  of  the  work,  such  as 
Mengs  remarks  upon  in  another  of  Velasquez's  paintings,  in 
the  execution  of  which  the  will  alone,  and  not  the  hand, 
scenied  to  have  had  any  part. 

In  the  inventory  of  1686,  where  it  is  first  mentioned,  the 
Meninas  is  valued  at  ten  thousand  doubloons,  and  under 
the  Bourbons  (1747)  the  price  rose  to  twenty-five  thousand 
doubloons.  It  was  etched  by  Goya,  but  the  plate  was 
destroyed,  having  been  injured  in  the  process  of  rebiting. 
Only  five  impressions  are  known,  one  of  which  is  in  the 
British  Museum,  acquired  for  £^\.  The  original  was  said 
to  have  been  injured  by  the  fire  that  destroyed  the  Alcazar 
(1734),  and  afterwards  repaired  by  Juan  de  Miranda.  The 
general  tone  may  perhaps  thereby  have  become  somewhat 
darker. 


THE  SYNDICS 

{Rembra7idi) 

6mILE   MICHEL 

WE  may  find  some  solace  for  our  regrets  at  the  muti- 
lations undergone  by  such  works  as  the  Night 
Watch  and  the  Conspiracy  of  Claudius  Civilis^  in  the  perfect 
preservation  of  another  canvas  of  this  period.  Commis- 
sioned by  the  Guild  of  Drapers,  or  Cloth-Workers,  to  paint 
a  portrait  group  of  their  Syndics  for  the  Hall  of  the 
Corporation,  Rembrandt  in  1661  delivered  to  them  the 
great  picture  which  formerly  hung  in  the  Chamber  of  the 
Controllers  and  Guagers  of  Cloth,  at  the  Staalhof,  and  has 
now  been  removed  to  the  Ryksmuseum.  As  in  earlier 
days  at  Florence,  the  wool  industry  held  an  important 
place  in  the  national  commerce  of  Holland,  and  had  greatly 
contributed  to  the  development  of  public  prosperity.  At 
Leyden,  where  the  guild  was  a  large  and  important  com- 
pany, we  know  that  the  Drapers  decorated  their  Hall  with 
pictures  by  Isaac  van  Swanenburch,  representing  the  vari- 
ous processes  of  cloth-making.  At  Amsterdam,  they 
formed  a  no  less  conspicuous  body,  and  an  admirable  work, 
also  in  the  Ryksmuseum,  painted  by  Aert  Petersen  in 
1599,  has  immortalized  the  Six  Syndics  of  the  Cloth  Hall  of 
that  date.  On  this  brilliant  and  perfectly  preserved  panel, 
the  arrangement  of  the  six  figures  has,  it  is  true,  a  some- 
what accidental  appearance,   and   evidently  cost  the   artist 


THE  SYNDICS  283 

little  trouble.  But  the  frankly  modelled  heads  have  a 
startling  energy  and  individuulitv,  notablv  that  of  the  cen- 
tral figure,  a  middle-aged  man  with  grizzled  hair,  and  a 
face  of  remarkable  intelligence  and  decision.  The  follow- 
ing inscription  on  the  panel  sums  up  in  a  few  words  the 
duties  of  the  administration:  "Conform  to  your  vows  in 
all  matters  clearly  within  their  jurisdiction;  live  honestly; 
be  not  influenced  in  your  judgments  by  favour,  hatred,  or 
personal  interest;  "  such  a  programme  of  loyalty  and  strict 
justice  was  the  foundation  of  Dutch  commercial  greatness. 
The  model  traders  of  Holland  combined  with  their  perfect 
integrity  a  spirit  of  enterprise  which  led  them  to  seek  dis- 
tant markets  for  their  produce,  and  a  tenacity  which  en- 
sured the  success  of  the  hazardous  expeditions  they  pro- 
moted. They  brought  the  qualities  they  had  acquired  in 
the  exercise  of  their  calling  to  bear  upon  their  management 
of  public  business,  and  it  was  not  unusual  for  the  most 
prominent  among  them,  who  had  proved  their  capacity  in 
the  administration  of  their  various  guilds,  to  be  elected 
councillors  and  burgomasters  by  their  fellow-citizens,  or  to 
undertake  the  management  of  those  charitable  institutions 
which  abounded  in  all  the  Dutch  towns.  As  was  the 
custom  among  the  military  guilds,  which  gradually  declined 
as  the  civic  corporations  increased  in  importance,  it  became 
a  practice  among  the  latter  to  decorate  their  halls  with  the 
portraits  of  their  dignitaries.  Whatever  the  character  of 
the  Company,  the  manner  of  representation  differed  little 
in  these  portraits.  Save  in  the  case  of  the  Anatomy  Lesion^ 
painted  for  the  guilds  of  Physicians  and  Surgeons,  or  some 


284  THE  SYNDICS 

few  awkwardly  rendered  episodes  inspired  by  the  distribu- 
tion of  alms  to  the  aged  and  the  orphaned,  the  painters  of 
these  compositions  contented  themselves  with  arranging 
their  patrons  round  a  table,  making  no  attempt  to  charac- 
terize them  by  any  sort  of  accessory.  The  balancing  of 
accounts,  an  operation  common  to  all  the  Companies,  had 
become  a  favourite  motive  in  such  groups.  The  adminis- 
trators would  appear  seated  at  a  table,  covered  with  a  cloth, 
busily  verifying  their  accounts,  and  the  contents  of  their 
cash-boxes,  and  explaining  with  gestures  more  or  less  ex- 
pensive, that  all  was  in  order,  and  that  they  had  faithfully 
fulfilled  their  trust.  In  the  background,  standing  apart 
with  uncovered  heads,  some  subordinates  awaited  their 
pleasure,  or  aided  them  in  their  task.  Such  was  the  trite 
theme,  which  was  adapted  to  each  of  the  societies  in  turn, 
and  to  which  all  the  painters  of  corporation  groups  con- 
formed with  more  or  less  exactitude.  The  only  modifica- 
tions of  treatment  arose  from  the  varying  degrees  of  talent 
in  the  executants.  But  in  all  we  find  that  same  spirit  of 
conscientious  exactitude  and  absolute  sincerity  which  had 
brought  wealth  to  their  models,  and  was  the  first  founda- 
tion of  Dutch  greatness  alike  in  commerce  and  in  art. 

Such  a  spirit  had  already  manifested  itself  in  the  Regents 
of  the  Asylum  for  the  Aged^  by  Cornells  Van  de  Voort,  and 
in  the  pictures  of  Werner  Van  Valckert,  an  artist  who  had 
won  a  well  deserved  reputation  by  his  studies  of  life  in  the 
Municipal  Orphanage,  and  who  painted  a  portrait-group 
of  The  Four  Syndics  of  the  Mercers'  Guild^  in  1622.  In 
the  hands  of  Thomas  de  Keyser  and  Nicholas  Elias  the 


THE  SYNDICS  iSs 

genre  had  reached  its  full  development.  Proclaimed  their 
painter  in  ordinary  by  the  leading  citizens  of  Amsterdam, 
Elias  was  commissioned  in  1626  to  paint  the  Regents  of  the 
Guild  of  Wme  Alerchants^  and  in  1628  produced  his  fine 
work,  The  Regents  of  the  Spinhuis.  Santvoort  in  his  turn — 
though  his  talents  lay  chiefly  in  the  direction  of  female  por- 
traiture— displayed  his  powers  very  creditably  in  his  Four 
Regents  of  the  Serge  Hall  of  1 643,  a  serious  and  well-con- 
sidered work,  finely  modelled  and  very  characteristically 
treated.  But  to  Haarlem  belongs  the  honour  of  having 
produced  the  finest  corporation  picture  executed  before 
Rembrandt's  masterpiece.  Too  much  stress  has  perhaps 
been  laid  on  the  manifestation  of  his  influence  in  Frans 
Hals'  Regents  of  the  Hospital  of  St.  Elizabeth.,  painted  in 
1641.  The  Haarlem  master  may,  we  think,  justly  lay 
claim  to  the  full  glory  of  his  achievements.  As  if  grate- 
ful in  anticipation  for  the  succour  he  was  afterwards  to  re- 
ceive from  his  models,  Hals  here  combines  with  the  mag- 
nificent technique  usual  in  his  works,  a  precision  and  dig- 
nity to  which  he  had  never  before  attained. 

At  this  period,  Dutch  art  had  reached  its  apogee,  and 
corporation  pictures  were  beginning  to  show  symptoms  of 
decline.  The  unquestionable  talent  of  Ferdinand  Bol,  one 
of  Rembrandt's  best  pupils,  had  not  preserved  him  from  a 
certain  mannerism  in  his  Regents  of  the  Jsylum  for  the  Jged^ 
dated  1657.  The  six  persons  are  seated  in  the  usual  man- 
ner round  a  table.  The  heads  are  somewhat  round  and 
soft  in  the  modelling,  and  have  little  of  the  strong  individ- 
uality that  impresses  us  in  the  works  of  Bol's  predecessors. 


286  THE  SYNDICS 

The  composition  is  lacking  in  simplicity,  and  the  painter's 
anxiety  to  give  variety  to  the  attitudes  is  somew^hat  dis- 
tractingly  obvious.  Each  figure  seems  to  claim  exclusive 
attention,  and  this  neglect  of  artistic  subordination  injures 
the  unity  of  the  composition,  though  it  was  indeed  one  of 
the  main  causes  of  Bol's  success,  for  each  model  was  flat- 
tered by  the  importance  of  his  own  figure  in  the  group. 

Such  were  the  most  important  productions  in  this  genre^ 
when  Rembrandt  was  commissioned  to  paint  his  group  of 
Syndics.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  Van  de  Cappelle  had  used 
his  influence  on  the  master's  behalf.  He  was  on  terms  of 
friendship  with  Rembrandt  at  this  period,  and  had  dealings 
with  most  of  the  principal  drapers,  in  connection  with  his 
dye-works.  It  is  therefore  possible  that  he  recommended 
the  master  to  their  patronage.  On  this  occasion  Rem- 
brandt made  no  attempt  to  vary  traditional  treatment  by 
picturesque  episode,  or  novel  method  of  illumination,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Night  Watch.  As  Dr.  Bredius  remarks : 
"  He  recognized,  no  doubt,  that  such  experiments  were  far 
from  grateful  to  his  patrons,  or  it  may  be  that  they  them- 
selves made  certain  stipulations  which  left  him  no  choice 
in  the  matter."  '  Be  this  as  it  may,  Rembrandt  accepted 
the  convention  of  his  predecessors  in  all  its  simplicity. 
The  five  dignitaries  of  the  Corporation  are  ranged  round  the 
inevitable  table,  prosaically  occupied  in  the  verification  of 
their  accounts.  They  are  all  dressed  in  black  costumes, 
with  flat  white  collars,  and  broad-brimmed  black  hats.  Be- 
hind them,  and  somewhat  in  the  shadow,  as  befits  his  office, 
1  Les  chefs  a'ceuvre  du  Musee  d^ Amsterdam^  26. 


THE  SYNDICS  287 

a  servant,  also  in  black,  awaits  their  orders  with  uncovered 
head.  The  table-cloth  is  of  a  rich  scarlet  j  a  wainscot  of 
yellowish  brown  wood,  with  simple  mouldings,  forms  the 
background  for  the  heads.  No  accessories,  no  variation  in 
the  costumes  ;  an  equally  diffused  light,  falling  from  the 
left  on  the  faces,  which  are  those  of  men  of  mature  years, 
some  verging  on  old  age.  With  such  modest  materials, 
Rembrandt  produced  his  masterpiece. 

At  the  first  glance,  we  are  fascinated  by  the  extraordi- 
nary reality  of  the  scene,  by  the  commanding  presence  and 
intense  vitality  of  the  models.  They  are  simply  honest 
citizens  discussing  the  details  of  their  calling  ;  but  there  is 
an  air  of  dignity  on  the  manly  faces  that  compels  re- 
spect. In  these  men,  to  whom  their  comrades  have  en- 
trusted the  direction  of  their  affairs,  we  recognize  the  marks 
of  clean  and  upright  living,  the  treasures  of  moral  and 
physical  health,  amassed  by  a  robust  and  wholesome  race. 
The  eyes  look  out  frankly  from  the  canvas :  the  lips 
seemed  formed  for  the  utterance  of  wise  and  sincere  words. 
Such  is  the  work,  but,  contemplating  it,  the  student  finds 
it  difficult  to  analyze  the  secret  of  its  greatness,  so  artfully 
is  its  art  concealed.  Unfettered  by  the  limitations  imposed 
on  him,  the  master's  genius  finds  its  opportunity  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  figures,  and  their  spacmg  on  the  canvas, 
in  the  slight  inflection  of  the  line  of  faces,  in  the  unstudied 
variety  of  gesture  and  attitude,  in  the  rhythm  and  balance 
of  the  whole.  An  examination  of  the  various  details  con- 
firms our  admiration.  Wc  note  the  solid  structure  of  the 
heads  and   figures,  the  absolute  truth  of  the  values,  the  in- 


288  THE  SYNDICS 

dividual  and  expressive  quality  of  each  head,  and  their  unity 
one  with  another.  Passing  from  the  drawing  to  the  colour, 
our  enthusiasm  is  raised  by  the  harmony  of  intense  velvety 
blacks  and  warm  whites  with  brilliant  carnations,  which 
seem  to  have  been  kneaded,  as  it  were,  with  sunshine ;  by 
the  shadows  which  bring  the  forms  into  relief  by  an  uner- 
ring perception  of  their  surfaces  and  textures ;  and,  finally, 
by  the  general  harmony,  the  extraordinary  vivacity  of  which 
can  only  be  appreciated  by  comparing  it  with  the  surround- 
ing canvasses. 

The  execution  is  no  less  amazing  in  its  sustained  breadth 
and  sobriety.  As  Fromentin  justly  observes :  "  The  vivid 
quality  of  the  light  is  so  illusory  that  it  is  difficult  to  con- 
ceive of  it  as  artificial.  So  perfect  is  the  balance  of  parts," 
he  adds,  "  that  the  general  impression  would  be  that  of  so- 
briety and  reticence,  were  it  not  for  the  undercurrent  of 
nerves,  of  flame,  of  impatience,  we  divine  beneath  the  out- 
wardly calm  maturity  of  the  master."  No  criticism  could 
be  more  admirable,  save  for  the  terms  "  nerves  "  and  "  im- 
patience," which  seem  to  me  to  be  peculiarly  inappropriate. 
I  appeal  to  all  students  of  this  great  work,  in  which  there 
is  not  the  slightest  trace  of  precipitation  or  negligence,  in 
which  the  "  flame  "  is  the  steady  fire  of  an  inspiration  per- 
fectly under  control. 

That  phase  of  Rembrandt's  development  in  which  he 
had  yielded  an  almost  slavish  obedience  to  Nature  had  long 
passed  away  ;  but  his  assurance  has  none  of  a  virtuoso 
making  a  display  of  his  proficiency.  His  is  the  strength 
that  possesses  its  soul  in  patience,  and  attains  its  end  with- 


THE  SYNDICS  289 

out  haste  or  hesitation.  Never  before  had  he  achieved  such 
perfection ;  never  again  was  he  to  repeat  the  triumph  of 
that  supreme  moment  when  all  his  natural  gifts  joined 
forces  with  the  vast  experiences  of  a  life  devoted  to  his 
art,  in  such  a  crowning  manifestation  of  his  genius.  Bril- 
liant and  poetical,  his  masterpiece  was  at  the  same  time  ab- 
solutely correct  and  unexceptionable.  Criticism,  which  still 
wrangles  over  the  Night  IVatch^  is  unanimous  in  admiration 
of  the  Syndics.  In  it  the  colourist  and  the  draughtsman, 
the  simple  and  the  subtle,  the  realist  and  the  idealist,  alike 
recognize  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  painting. 

We  know  not  how  the  work  was  received.  Rut  the  ab- 
sence of  any  evidence  to  the  contrary  seems  to  prove  that 
it  made  no  great  impression  on  Rembrandt's  contemporaries. 
Its  virile  art  was  little  suited  to  the  taste  of  the  day  ;  an 
enamelled  smoothness  of  surface,  and  elaborate  minuteness 
of  treatment  alone  found  favour.  The  master's  broad  and 
liberal  manner  must  have  seemed  a  direct  challenge  to  his 
contemporaries.  At  Rembrandt's  age,  and  in  the  con- 
ditions under  which  he  was  living,  it  was  impossible  that  he 
should  long  sustain  the  high  level  of  excellence  he  had 
reached  in  the  Syndics. 


THE  AGE  OF  INNOCENCE 

(^Reynolds)  * 

F.  G.  STEPHENS 

WE  believe  Reynolds,  of  that  English  school  of 
portrait-painters  of  which  he  was  the  founder, 
was  the  happiest  in  introducing  backgrounds  to  his  figures ; 
to  him  we  are  indebted  for  that  suitability  of  one  to  the 
other  which  has  so  great  an  effect  in  putting  the  eye  and 
mind  of  the  observer  into  harmonious  relationship  with 
what  may  be  called  the  motive  of  the  portraits,  a  relation- 
ship which  elevates  a  likeness  to  the  character  of  a  picture, 
and  affords  a  charming  field  for  the  display  of  art  in  pathos, 
which  is  often  neglected,  if  not  utterly  ignored  by  Rey- 
nolds's successors.  We  think  he  exhibited  more  of  this 
valuable  characteristic  than  any  other  contemporary  artist. 
Lawrence  aimed  at  it,  but  with  effect  only  commensurate  to 
his  success  in  painting.  Of  old,  as  before  the  Seventeenth 
Century  in  Germany  and  Italy,  the  art  of  landscape  paint- 
ing per  se  was  inefficiently  cultivated,  at  least  it  was  ex- 
pressed with  irregularity,  although  occasionally  with  force 
enough  to  show  that  the  pathos  and  the  beauty  of  nature 
were  by  no  means  unappreciated  or  neglected  to  anything 
like  the  extent  which  has  been  commonly  represented  by 
writers  on  Art.  Reynolds  probably  took  the  hint,  as  he  did 
many  others  of  the  kind,  from  Van  Dyck,  and  gave  apt 


THK     A<iK    or    IVN(><  KN<  K. 


THE  AGE  OF  INNOCENCE  29 1 

backgrounds  to  his  figures  :  between  these  painters  no  one 
did  much,  or  even  well  in  the  pathetic  part  of  the  achieve- 
ment. Since  Reynolds,  none  have  approached  him  in  suc- 
cess. It  will  be  understood  that  the  object  of  these  re- 
marks is  not  to  suggest  for  the  reader's  consideration  who 
painted  the  best  landscape  backgrounds  as  landscapes,  but 
who  most  happily  adapted  them  to  his  more  important 
themes.  We  believe  Reynolds  did  so,  and  will  conclude 
our  remarks  by  another  example.  The  landscape  in  the 
distance  of  The  Age  of  Innocence  is  as  thoroughly  in  keeping 
with  the  subject  as  it  can  be :  there  are  fields  easy  to 
traverse,  a  few  village  elms,  and  just  seen  above  their  tops 
the  summits  of  habitations, — the  hint  is  thus  given  that 
the  child,  all  innocent  as  she  is,  has  not  gone  far  from 
home,  or  out  of  sight  of  the  household  to  whom  she  be- 
longs. This  picture — which  is  now  in  the  National 
Gallery — was  bought  at  Mr.  Jeremiah  Harman's  sale  in 
1844  by  Mr.  Vernon  for  1,520  guineas.  It  was  exhibited 
at  the  British  Institution  in  18 13  and  1843.  Another,  the 
property  of  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  was  also  exhibited  there 
in   1833. 


THE  AGE  OF  INNOCENCE 

ANONYMOUS 

IT  is  rather  singular  that,  though  the  Age  of  Innocence  is  one 
of  the  painter's  most  familiar  works,  little  or  nothing 
seems  to  be  known  respecting  it.  In  the  Catalogue  ap- 
pended to  his  English  Children  as  Painted  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds^  Mr.  F.  G.  Stephens  is  unable  to  assign  a  date  to 
this  picture.  In  the  Index  to  Leslie's  Life  of  Reynolds  no 
mention  of  it  is  to  be  found  ;  but  Mr.  Tom  Taylor,  the 
editor  of  Leslie's  unfinished  work,  is  inclined  to  assign 
many  pictures  of  the  class  to  which  it  belongs  to  the  year 
1773  and  the  following  years. 

"  The  average  total  of  sitters  for  the  year  had  now  fallen 
from  the  hundred  and  fifty,  forty,  thirty,  at  which  it  stood 
between  1755  and  1765  to  sixty  and  seventy.  The  inter- 
vals left  by  sitters  Sir  Joshua  occupied  by  fancy  subjects. 
'Boy,'  'Girl,'  'Shepherd-boy,'  'Shepherd-girl,'  are  now 
continually  recurring  entries.  It  is  to  this  stage  that 
we  must  refer  some  of  his  most  ambitious  historical  pieces, 
as  the  Ugolino,  as  well  as  most  of  those  charming  little 
pictures,  so  many  of  which  contest  places  in  our  memories 
with  his  finest  portraits,  as  much  by  virtue  of  their  character 
and  grace  as  by  their  power  and  ease  of  execution.  Many 
of  these  belong  to  this  year." 

One  is  the  famous   Straivberry  Girl^  one  of  the  "  half- 


THE  AGE  OF  INNOCENCE  293 

dozen  original  things,"  which  the  painter  declared  that  no 
man  ever  exceeded  in  his  life's  work.  "  To  the  same  style 
belong  Aluscipula  holding  up  the  mouse-trap,  while  the  cat 
eagerly  sniffs  at  the  poor  little  prisoner;  Rohinetta  feeding 
her  bird,  perched  on  her  shoulders;  and  Dorinda^  sadly  cry- 
ing o\er  her  pet's  body  by  the  side  of  its  empty  cage." 

Some  hint  of  the  tact  which  contributed  to  Reynolds's 
success  in  depicting  the  restless,  ever-varying  graces  of 
childhood,  is  conveyed  in  the  account  that  has  come  down 
to  us  of  the  circumstances  under  which  his  well-known 
picture  of  M'ns  Bowles  was  painted  :  the  painter  sitting  by 
the  little  girl's  side  at  dinner,  making  her  look  at  some- 
thing distant  from  the  table  and  stealing  her  plate,  pretend- 
ing to  look  for  It  and  contriving  that  it  should  come  back 
to  her  without  her  knowing  how  ;  amusing  her  with  tricks 
and  stories  till  she  thought  him  the  most  charming  man 
in  the  world,  and  was  delighted  to  be  taken  the  next  day 
to  his  house,  when  she  sat  down  with  a  face  full  of  glee, 
the  expression  of  which  he  caught  at  once  and  never  lost. 
Something  of  the  same  skill  in  seizing  a  fleeting  grace  is  to 
be  seen  in  the  picture  before  us  in  the  unaffected  pose  of  the 
arms,  which  the  little  sitter  doubtless  maintained  for  very 
few  seconds,  but  which  contributes  so  much  to  the  ex- 
pression of  simplicity  and  innocence. 


..u.. 


"^"V—    BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN 

J.  A.  CROWE  AND  G.  B.  CAVALCASELLE 

HISTORIANS  are  not  agreed  as  to  whether  Laura 
Dianti,  whose  likeness  Titian  painted,  was  the  wife 
or  the  mistress  of  Alfonso  of  Este ;  yet  a  record  exists 
which  seems  to  prove  that  Tomaso  and  Agostino  Mosti, 
both  well-known  writers  at  Ferrara,  confessed  to  have  been 
present  at  the  Duke's  marriage.  In  her  lifetime  Laura  was 
known  as  "  the  most  illustrious  Signora  Laura  Eustiochio 
Estense " ;  and  when  she  died  and  was  buried  in  Sant' 
Agostino  of  Ferrara,  Alfonso  the  Second  and  Cardinal 
Luigi  of  Este  accompanied  her  son  Don  Alfonso  to  the 
funeral.^  Vasari  tells  us  it  was  a  "  stupendous  portrait " 
that  Titian  painted  of  the  Signora  Laura,  "  who  was  after- 
wards the  Duke's  wife."  It  has  not  been  suggested 
though,  it  may  be,  that  this  masterpiece  was  the  ''  portrait 
of  a  lady  with  an  Ethiopian  page."  The  fashion  of  late 
years  has  been  to  identify  Laura  d'Este  with  the  picture  of 
a  girl  at  her  toilet  attended  by  a  man  holding  two  mirrors 
in  the  Louvre.  In  confirmation  of  this  it  has  been  said 
that  the  man  in  the  background  is  Alfonso  of  Este,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  round  forehead  with  the  cropped 
hair  in  a  peak  down  its  centre,  the  short  and  finely 
^The  burial  took  place  June  28,  1573. 


I. A     III. 1. 1. A. 


BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN  295 

chiselled  nose,  and  the  cut  beard,  are  very  like  similar 
features  in  Alfonso's  portrait  at  Madrid  ;  yet  this  much,  if 
accepted  as  correct,  would  not  prove  beyond  question  that 
the  lady  to  whom  Alfonso  is  holding  the  mirrors  is  Laura 
Dianti  ;  and  we  may  fairly  doubt  whether  a  girl,  beautiful 
indeed  but  simple  in  attire,  could  be  the  mistress  of  a  Duke 
like  Alfonso.  It  is  known,  however,  that  Laura  was  the 
daughter  of  a  citizen  of  modest  station,  and  it  may  be  that 
Titian  was  called  on  to  portray  this  citizen's  daughter 
when  as  yet  she  had  not  risen  from  the  humbleness  of  her 
original  position.  It  is  certainly  striking  that  the  shape 
which  Titian  has  painted  should  not  only  be  beautiful,  but 
of  extreme  simplicity  in  its  attire,  added  to  which  a 
generous  breadth  of  form,  ruddy  health  and  firm  flesh,  in- 
dicate a  nature  altogether  foreign  to  the  air  of  courts.  It 
is  true  this  innocent-looking  maid  has  already  learnt  the 
arts  familiar  to  ladies  of  that  age.  Her  hair  has  been 
washed,  plaited  and  bleached  to  a  ruddy  tone  by  lotions 
and  exposure  to  the  sun,  and  has  thus  acquired  that  arti- 
ficial golden  tinge  which  we  look  for  in  vain  in  the  V'cnice 
of  our  day  ;  the  wave  is  in  it  which  plaiting  gives,  and  an 
ointment  is  ready  on  the  table  to  smooth  and  perfume  it. 
But  these  innocent  arts  might  be  known  to  the  daughter  of 
a  citizen  as  well  as  to  the  mate  of  a  prince  ;  and  there  is 
nothing  in  them  to  diminish  the  impression  of  simplicity 
which  the  picture  otherwise  conveys.  The  girl  is  repre- 
sented standing  behind  a  tabic  or  slab  of  stone  dressing  her 
hair,  whilst  a  man  in  the  gloom  behind  her  holds  with  his 
left  hand  a  round  mirror,  the  reflection  of  which  he  catches 


196  BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN 

with  a  square  mirror  in  his  right.  Into  the  second  of  these 
the  girl  gently  bends  her  head  to  look,  eagerly  watched  by 
her  lover  as  she  twists  a  long  skein  of  wavy  golden  hair. 
Over  the  white  and  finely  plaited  linen  that  loosely  covers 
her  bosom,  a  short  green  bodice  is  carelessly  thrown ;  and 
a  skirt  of  the  same  stuff  is  gathered  to  the  waist  by  a  sash 
of  similar  colour.  A  broad  white  sleeve  hangs  in  a  rich 
festoon  from  the  right  shoulder,  exposing  the  whole  of  a 
grand  and  fleshy  arm ;  whilst  a  bright  blue  scarf  winds 
round  the  left  wrist  and  leaves  nothing  but  the  hand  to  be 
seen  as  it  rests  on  the  ointment  vase.  The  left  side  of  the 
girl's  head  is  already  dressed,  she  is  finishing  the  right  side, 
and  a  delightful  archness  and  simplicity  beams  in  the  eyes 
as  they  turn  to  catch  the  semblance  in  the  mirror.  The 
coal-black  eye  and  brow  contrast  with  the  ruddy  hair ;  the 
chiselled  nose  projects  in  delicate  line  from  a  face  of 
rounded  yet  pure  contour,  and  the  lips,  of  a  cherry  redness 
which  Titian  alone  makes  natural,  are  cut  with  surprising 
fineness.  The  light  is  concentrated  with  unusual  force 
upon  the  face  and  bust  of  the  girl,  whilst  the  form  and 
features  of  the  man  are  lost  in  darkness.  We  pass  with 
surprising  rapidity  from  the  most  delicate  silvery  gradations 
of  sunlit  flesh  and  drapery,  to  the  mysterious  depths  of  an 
almost  unfathomable  gloom,  and  we  stand  before  a  modelled 
balance  of  light  and  shade  that  recalls  da  Vinci  entranced 
by  a  chord  of  tonic  harmony  as  sweet  and  as  thrilling  as 
was  ever  struck  by   any   artist  of  the  Venetian   school.^ 

"  The  earliest  reference  to  this  picture  is  Bathoe's  catalogue  of  Charles 
I.'s  collection :  "  No.  16,  Titian  and  his  mistress  by  himself,  appraised  at 


BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN  297 

How  this  depth  of  shade  and  flimmering  of  reflections  in 
darkness,  how  this  breadth  of  light  were  attained,  is  a  secret 
which  defies  us  the  more  as  it  defied  the  closest  observers 
of  Titian's  own  time.  How  he  worked  the  strong  pasta 
of  his  pigments  or  modified  them  with  countless  varieties 
of  rubbings,  subject  to  a  final  general  glazing,  it  is  hard  to 
say  ;  hut  he  had  now  succeeded  in  producing  that  combi- 
nation of  colour  and  fairness  which  we  notice  in  all  the 
pictures  of  this  time, — a  combination  equally  conspicuous 
in  the  Bacchus  and  Ariadne^  the  Madonna  with  the  Rabbit 
and  those  grander  but  later  marvels  of  technical  execution, 
the  Entombment  of  the  Louvre  and  the  Firgin  and  Saints  of 
the  Vatican.  Traditions  of  an  early  time  did  not,  as  we 
saw,  connect  this  picture  with  Alfonso  of  Ferrara ;  on  the 
contrary,  when  it  passed  into  the  collection  of  Charles  the 
First  of  England,  it  was  known  as  Titian  and  his  Mistress; 
and  strange  to  say,  though  a  likeness  is  not  to  be  traced 
between  the  man  in  the  background  and  Titian,  the  name 
still  clings,  as  names  will  strangely  do,  to  the  canvas  which 
displays,  if  not  his  figure,  at  least  his  art  in  its  grandest 
form.  What  distinguishes  the  canvas  at  the  Louvre  from 
others  in  which  Titian  has  depicted  with  a  certain  freedom 
the  charms  of  women,  is  the  semblance  of  chasteness  and 

and  sold  for  jCioo."  Jabach  Ixiught  it,  and  afterwards  sold  it  to  Louii 
XIV.  It  is  now  No.  471  in  the  Ix)uvre,  on  canv.-is,  m.  o.  9611,  by  o.  76. 
If  there  be  anything  in  the  picture  less  commcndalilc  than  the  rest,  it  is 
the  rendering  of  the  right  arm,  which,  together  witii  the  drapery  about  it, 
seems  not  quite  to  fit  to  the  shoulder,  but  this  defect  is  scarcely  visible  in 
the  midst  of  the  beauties  which  abound  in  every  part.  A  fine  contrast  is 
that  of  the  red  damask  dress  of  the  man  with  tlie  cold,  dark  background. 
»Scc  Great  JHcturti  (New  Yurk,  1899),  facing  page  72. 


298  BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN 

candour  in  the  persons  whom  he  delineated.  When  he 
chose  he  could  easily  create  a  more  complex  impression ;  as 
he  does  in  the  Flora  of  the  Uffizi,  a  figure  which  presents 
form  of  similar  scantling  with  a  mould  of  head  and  move- 
ment not  essentially  different.  But  here  instead  of  vivid 
colour  and  powerful  effect  of  light  and  shade,  we  have  all 
light,  all  softness,  and  a  suffusion  which  is  not  without 
dazzling  brightness  though  it  is  without  strong  contrasts. 
Here  in  fact  Titian  evidently  desires  to  suggest  another 
phase  of  life — not  the  maiden,  but  the  woman — with  the 
roses  which  she  has  plucked,  the  woman  whose  skin  is  fair, 
but  blanched  by  art,  whose  shape  is  softened  by  seclusion, 
a  woman  of  delicate  whiteness,  seductive  and  Hghtly  clad. 
Tradition  again  suggests  Titian's  mistress;  and  Sandrart 
embodied  this  tradition  when  he  wrote  in  the  Seventeenth 
Century : 

**  rere  viret  tellus  placido  perfusa  liquore, 
A  Zephyr 0  et  blafido  turgida  fiore  viget 
Flora  modo  veris,  Titiani  pectus  amore 
Imp  let,  et  huic  similes  illaqueare  par  at.''* 

It  might  occur  to  many  to  think  that  the  Venus  of  the 
Uffizi  was  a  portrait  immortalizing  the  charms  of  a  young 
and  beautiful  woman  dear  in  a  passing  way  to  the  Duke  of 
Urbino.  But  this  need  not  necessarily  be  true,  if  the 
figure  be  but  an  embodiment  of  a  new  type  which  struck 
Titian's  fancy  at  the  time  the  figure  as  a  whole,  was  fre- 
quently copied  by  contemporaries  and  later  artists  ;  and  of 
this  we   have   examples   in   the   replica  by  a  Venetian  of 


BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN  299 

Titian's  age  at  the  Uffizi,  and  adaptations  such  as  are  seen 
in  the  Butler  Johnstone  and  Hampton  Court  collections. 
But  the  face  was  also  one  which  reappeared  in  diverse 
forms  in  pictures  of  varied  character,  and  this  we  observe 
in  a  portrait  of  a  young  woman  at  the  Pitti  which  goes  by 
the  name  of  "  La  bella  di  Titiano,"  and  two  or  three  fancy 
pieces  in  the  galleries  of  St.  Petersburg  and  Vienna. 

"  La  bclla  di  Titiano  "  at  the  Pitti,  is  one  of  Titian's 
likenesses  in  which  every  feature  tells  of  high  lineage  and 
distinction.  The  pose,  the  look,  the  dress  are  all  noble. 
We  may  presume  that  the  name  was  accepted  for  want  of 
a  better,  l^he  face  was  so  winning  that  it  lurked  in 
Titian's  memory,  and  passed  as  a  type  into  numerous  can- 
vases in  which  the  painter  tried  to  realize  an  ideal  of  love- 
liness. The  head  being  seen  about  two-thirds  to  the  left, 
whilst  the  eyes  are  turned  to  the  right,  the  spectator  is 
fascinated  by  the  glance  in  whatever  direction  he  looks  at 
the  canvas.  The  eye  is  grave,  serene,  and  kindly,  the 
nose  delicate  and  beautifully  shaped,  the  mouth  divine. 
Abundant  hair  of  a  warm  auburn  waves  along  the  temples, 
leaving  a  stray  curl  to  drop  on  the  forehead.  The  rest  is 
plaited  and  twisted  into  coils  round  a  head  of  the  most 
symmetrical  shape.  A  gold  chain  falls  over  a  throat  of 
exquisite  model,  and  the  low  dress  with  its  Iwaidcd  orna- 
ments and  slashed  sleeves,  alternately  tinted  in  blue  and 
white  and  white  and  purple  is  magnificent.  One  hand — the 
left — is  at  rest ;  the  other  holds  a  tassel  hanging  from  a  girdle. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  delicacy  and  subtlety  with  which 
the  flesh  and  dress  arc  painted  j  the  tones  being  harmonized 


300  BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN 

and  thrown  into  keeping  by  a  most  varied  use  and  applica- 
tion of  glazings  and  scrumblings.  ^ 

From  the  palace — for  here  we  are  surely  in  the  best  and 
highest  of  company — we  descend  the  social  scale  to  the 
"  Mistress  of  Titian  "  at  the  Hermitage  of  Petersburg ;  a 
half  length  of  a  slender  girl  in  a  red  hat  prettily  decorated 
with  a  white  feather — a  double  string  of  pearls,  and  a 
jewelled  clasp,  earrings  of  pearls,  and  necklace  of  the  same, 
enhance  the  charms  before  us.  But  instead  of  a  dress  to 
match  this  gala  head,  we  find  the  form  all  but  unclad,  the 
muslin  under-garment  hardly  showing  at  the  shoulder,  the 
frame  but  loosely  covered  with  a  green  pelisse  lined  with 
ermine.  We  might  think  this  is  a  young  lady  whose  head 
is  dressed  for  a  ball,  waiting  for  her  maid  to  complete  the 
toilet ;  but  the  face  which  vaguely  recalls  the  Venus  of  the 
Uffizi,  is  too  gay,  too  arch  and  too  provoking,  and  women 
who  are  dressing  are  not  necessarily  in  this  best  of  tempers. 

'  This  picture  is  a  half-length  of  life-size  on  canvas.  It  measures  I 
brae.  I4in.  in  height,  and  1.6  in  breadth  ;  and  is  numbered  18  in  the  Pitti 
collection.  Some  of  the  finish  has  been  removed  by  cleaning,  and  the 
abrasion  of  the  finest  glazings  makes  the  surface  look  comparatively  cold. 
This  coldness  is  most  apparent  about  the  throat,  but  may  also  be  seen  in 
the  hair,  which  is  partly  retouched,  and  in  the  warm,  dark  background. 


THE  CRUCIFIXION  OF  CHRIST 

{Rubens) 
SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS 

THE  altar  of  the  choir  is  the  famous  Crucifixion  of 
Christ  between  the  two  Thieves,  by  Rubens.  To 
give  animation  to  this  subject,  he  has  chosen  the  point  of 
time  when  an  executioner  is  piercing  the  side  of  Christ, 
whilst  another  with  a  bar  of  iron  is  breaking  the  limbs  of 
one  of  the  malefactors,  who  in  his  convulsive  agony,  which 
his  body  admirably  expresses,  has  torn  one  of  his  feet  from 
the  tree  to  which  it  was  nailed.  The  expression  in  the 
action  of  this  figure  is  wonderful :  the  attitude  of  the  other 
is  more  composed  ;  and  he  looks  at  the  dying  Christ  with  a 
countenance  perfectly  expressive  of  his  penitence.  This 
figure  is  likewise  admirable.  The  Virgin,  St.  John,  and 
Mary,  the  wife  of  Cleophas,  are  standing  by  with  great  ex- 
pression of  grief  and  resignation,  whilst  the  Magdalen,  who 
is  at  the  feet  of  Christ,  and  may  be  supposed  to  have  been 
kissing  his  feet,  looks  at  the  horseman  with  the  spear,  with 
a  countenance  of  great  horror:  as  the  expression  carries 
with  it  no  grimace  or  contortion  of  the  features,  the 
beauty  is  not  destroyed.  This  is  by  far  the  most  beautiful 
profile  I  ever  saw  of  Rubens,  or,  I  think  of  any  other 
painter  ;  the  excellence  of  its  colouring  is  beyond  expres- 
sion. To  say  that  she  may  be  supposed  to  have  been  kiss- 
ing Christ's    feet,  may  be   thought  too  refined  a  criticism  •, 


302  THE  CRUCIFIXION  OF  CHRIST 

but  Rubens  certainly  intended  to  convey  that  idea,  as 
appears  by  the  disposition  of  her  hands ;  for  they  are 
stretched  out  towards  the  executioner,  and  one  of  them  is 
before  and  the  other  behind  the  Cross;  which  gives  an  idea 
of  her  hands  having  been  round  it ;  and  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  she  is  generally  represented  kissing  the  feet  of 
Christ ;  it  is  her  place  and  employment  in  those  subjects. 
The  good  centurion  ought  not  to  be  forgotten,  who  is 
leaning  forward,  one  hand  on  the  other,  resting  on  the 
mane  of  his  horse,  while  he  looks  up  to  Christ  with  great 
earnestness. 

The  genius  of  Rubens  nowhere  appears  to  more  ad- 
vantage than  here  :  it  is  the  most  carefully  finished  pic- 
ture of  all  his  works.  The  whole  is  conducted  with  the 
most  consummate  art ;  the  composition  is  bold  and  un- 
common, with  circumstances  which  no  other  painter  had 
ever  before  thought  of;  such  as  the  breaking  of  the  limbs, 
and  the  expression  of  the  Magdalen,  to  which  we  may  add 
the  disposition  of  the  three  crosses,  which  are  placed  pro- 
spectively in  an  uncommon  picturesque  manner:  the  nearest 
bears  the  thief  whose  limbs  are  breaking ;  the  next  the 
Christ,  whose  figure  is  straighter  than  ordinary,  as  a  con- 
trast to  the  others  ;  and  the  furthermost,  the  penitent  thief : 
this  produces  a  most  picturesque  effect,  but  it  is  what  few 
but  such  a  daring  genius  as  Rubens  would  have  attempted. 
It  is  here,  and  in  such  compositions,  we  properly  see 
Rubens,  and  not  in  little  pictures  of  Madonnas  and  Bam- 
binos.  It  appears  that  Rubens  made  some  changes  in  this 
picture,   after   Bolswert   had  engraved  his  print   from  it. 


rill      <    i:  I  <   1 1   I 


THE   CRUCIFIXION   OF   CHRIST  303 

The  horseman  who  is  in  the  act  of  piercing  the  side  of 
Christ,  holds  the  spear,  according  to  the  print,  in  a  very 
tame  manner,  with  the  back  of  the  hand  over  the  spear, 
grasping  it  with  only  three  fingers,  the  fore-finger  straight, 
lying  on  the  spear  -,  whereas  in  the  picture,  the  back  of  the 
hand  comes  under  the  spear,  and  he  grasps  it  with  his 
whole  force. 

The  other  defect,  which  is  remedied  in  the  picture,  is  the 
action  of  the  executioner,  who  breaks  the  legs  of  the  crimi- 
nal ;  and  in  the  print  both  his  hands  are  over  the  bar  of 
iron,  which  makes  a  false  action  :  in  the  picture  the  whole 
disposition  is  altered  to  the  natural  manner  in  which  every 
person  holds  a  weapon,  which  requires  both  hands ;  the  right 
is  placed  over,  and  the  left  under  it. 

This  print  was  undoubtedly  done  under  the  inspection  of 
Rubens  himself.  It  may  be  worth  observing,  that  the 
keeping  of  the  masses  of  light  in  the  print  differs  much 
from  the  picture  :  this  change  is  not  from  inattention,  but 
design  :  a  different  conduct  is  required  in  a  composition  with 
colours,  from  what  ought  to  be  followed  when  it  is  in  black 
and  white  only.  We  have  here  the  authority  of  this  great 
master  of  light  and  shadow,  that  a  print  requires  more  and 
larger  masses  of  light  than  a  picture. 

In  this  picture  the  principal  and  the  strongest  light  is  the 
body  of  Christ,  which  is  of  a  remarkable  clear  and  bright 
colour-,  this  is  strongly  opposed  by  the  very  brown  com- 
plexion of  the  thieves  (perhaps  the  opposition  here  is  too 
violent),  who  make  no  great  effect  as  light.  The  Virgin's 
outer  drapery  is  dark  blue,  and  the  inner  a  dark  purple  j  and 


304  THE  CRUCIFIXION  OF  CHRIST 

St.  John  is  in  dark  strong  red ;  no  part  of  these  two  figures 
is  light  in  the  picture,  but  the  head  and  hands  of  the 
Virgin;  but  in  the  print  they  make  the  principal  mass  of 
light  of  the  whole  composition.  The  engraver  has  cer- 
tainly produced  a  fine  effect ;  and  I  suspect  it  is  as  certain, 
that  if  this  change  had  not  been  made,  it  would  have  ap- 
peared a  black  and  heavy  print. 

When  Rubens  thought  it  necessary  in  the  print  to  make 
a  mass  of  light  of  the  drapery  of  the  Virgin  and  St.  John, 
it  was  likewise  necessary  that  it  should  be  of  a  beautiful 
shape,  and  be  kept  compact ;  it  therefore  became  necessary 
to  darken  the  whole  figure  of  the  Magdalen,  which  in  the 
picture  is  at  least  as  light  as  the  body  of  Christ ;  her  head, 
linen,  arms,  hair,  and  the  feet  of  Christ,  make  a  mass  as 
light  as  the  body  of  Christ:  it  appears  therefore,  that  some 
parts  are  to  be  darkened,  as  well  as  other  parts  made  lighter; 
this  consequently  is  a  science  which  an  engraver  ought  well 
to  understand,  before  he  can  presume  to  venture  on  any 
alteration  from  the  picture  which  he  means  to  represent. 

The  same  thing  may  be  remarked  in  many  other  prints 
by  those  engravers  who  were  employed  by  Rubens  and  Van 
Dyck ;  they  always  gave  more  light  than  they  were 
warranted  by  the  picture :  a  circumstance  which  may  merit 
the  attention  of  engravers. 

I  have  dwelt  longer  on  this  picture  than  any  other,  as  it 
appears  to  me  to  deserve  extraordinary  attention :  it  is  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  first  pictures  in  the  world,  for  composition, 
colouring,  and  what  was  not  to  be  expected  from  Rubens, 
correctness  of  drawing. 


i  ' 


PARNASSUS 
"^'''■'  ^^  (^Mantegna)      <^ 

JULES  GUIFFREY 

AFTER  a  visit  of  four  vears  in  Rome,  Mantegna  re- 
turned to  Mantua  in  1490,  the  day  after  the 
magniticent  feasts  in  honour  of  the  marriage  of  Giovanni 
Francisco  de  Gonzaga,  Duke  remnant,  with  the  Princess 
Isabella  d'Este,  who,  in  the  history  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance, has  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  women  for  her  beauty  and  still  more  for 
her  intelligence,  and  her  taste  for  art  and  philosophy. 
From  her  arrival  in  Mantua,  Isabella  endeavoured  to 
establish  in  the  enormous  ducal  palace  a  studiolo^  where 
she  could  receive  the  savants^  the  poets  and  the  artists,  and 
converse  with  them.  She  ordered  the  most  renowned 
painters  of  her  day  to  decorate  it  and  gave  the  subjects  for 
these  compositions  first  to  Mantegna,  and  then  to  Perugino, 
Giovanni  Bellini,  Francia,  and,  finally,  to  Lorenzo  Costa. 

Doubtless  Isabella  d'Este,  great  friend  ot  art  that  she  was, 
knew  Mantegna  through  his  reputation  which  was  already 
considerable,  and  through  his  works  which  she  could  have 
seen  at  her  father's  court  ;  she  was  certainly  astonished 
also  upon  her  arrival  at  Mantua  by  the  paintings  of  this 
great  master  spread  in  pnjfusion  upon  the  walls  of  the  pal- 
aces  and  ducal  villas,  the  very  rare  remains  of  which  allow 


j06  PARNASSUS 

US  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  their  grandeur.  It  was  then  very 
natural  that  the  duchess  called  first  upon  Mantegna  to  dec- 
orate her  salon.  But  as  he  was  living  in  Mantua,  the  com- 
mand was  given  by  word  of  mouth,  and  no  written  docu- 
ment has  come  to  light  regarding  the  preparation  and  exe- 
cution of  these  two  pictures.  This  was  not  the  case  with 
the  other  artists  established  outside  of  the  domains  of  the 
Duke  Giovanni.  Fifty-two  letters  exchanged  between  Per- 
ugino  and  Isabella  d'Este  are  in  existence,  which  show  that 
Mantegna's  two  compositions  served  as  models  for  later 
works  with  regard  to  dimensions,  procedure,  the  number  of 
personages  in  the  foreground,  etc.  A  similar  correspond- 
ence, but  not  so  important,  was  exchanged  between  the 
princess  and  Giovanni  Bellini  in  Venice,  on  the  one  hand, 
and,  with  Francia  in  Bologna,  on  the  other,  and  very  use- 
lessly, moreover,  for  they  sneaked  away  from  the  requests 
of  Isabella  d'Este  and  would  not  execute  her  commands. 

These  letters  show  us  how  exacting  the  Duchess  of 
Mantua  was ;  she  not  only  gave  the  subject  of  the  picture, 
but  she  indicated  also  the  way  in  which  she  wanted  it 
treated,  the  number  of  personages  and  their  attitudes,  the 
episodes  in  the  middle  distance,  and,  finally,  fixed  all  the 
details,  and  even  accompanied  her  orders  by  a  sketch,  so 
that  the  painter  could  not  possibly  mistake  the  meaning  of 
her  instructions ;  and  if,  embarrassed  by  so  many  restric- 
tions, he  asked  for  a  small  variation  in  the  programme, 
every  change  and  every  modification  was  refused.  The 
Duchess  was  obstinate  in  imposing  her  own  ideas.  More- 
over, she  was  not  always  satisfied,  for  she  tells  us  in  one  of 


PARNASSUS  307 

her  letters  that  Perugino's  picture,  The  Combat  of  Love  and 
Chastity  did  not  please  her. 

This  was  not  the  case  with  the  two  paintings  by  Man- 
tegna,  one  representing  the  Combat  of  the  rirtues  with  the 
rices ;  the  other,  Parnassus.  The  first  is  addressed  to  the 
philosophers,  the  second  to  the  poets  that  frequented  the 
studiolo.  As  for  the  date  of  their  execution,  it  is  cer- 
tainly before  1505  ;  a  letter  of  Perugino's  proves  this. 
Very  probably  Mantegna  painted  it  from  1493  ^°  H97  »  ^o^ 
in  1493  Isabella  sent  to  Venice  quite  a  large  supply  of  ul- 
tramarine, then  a  rare  and  precious  commodity,  "  for  Man- 
tegna's  pictures,"  and  in  1497  ^  varnish,  with  which  the 
master  had  previously  declared  his  satisfaction.* 

It  was  under  these  conditions  that  one  of  the  purest 
masterpieces  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  was  produced, 
Parnassus^ — that  picture  where,  in  a  landscape  that  one  only 
sees  in  dreams,  the  nine  Muses,  in  light  tunics,  of  varied 
and  changing  hue,  gaily  dance  and  sing  upon  the  grass  to 
the  sounds  of  the  lyre  with  which  Apollo,  seated  on  the 
left,  accompanies  his  own  songs.  Pegasus  is  on  the  right, 
and  Mercury  is  standing  near  him  ;  while  in  the  middle 
distance,  on  a  rock,  cut  out  in  the  form  of  an  arch,  and 
showing  in  the  distance  the  green  and  flowery  declivities  of 
Helicon,  Mars  and  Venus  are  revealed,  standing  in  front  of 
a  mass  of  orange  trees.  Near  thcin,  Cupid  annovs  with 
his  arrows  Vulcan,  who  appears,  furious,  at  the  entrance  of 
a  grotto  where  his  furnace  flames. 

'  Sec  Gautte  da  Heaux-Arti  ( 1895)  '>  "^'^  Isaielle  J' Este  et  Us  Artistes 
dt  son  Temps  by  Charles  Vriarte. 


308  PARNASSUS 

Let  us  now  remark  that  nowhere  else,  in  all  the  work  of 
Mantegna,  does  woman  hold  so  great  a  place  as  in  this  pic- 
ture, inspired  by  a  woman  as  attractive  by  the  charms  of  her 
beauty  as  by  the  cultivation  of  her  mind.  These  Muses, 
in  their  varied  attitudes  of  healthful  grace,  without  affec- 
tation or  archness,  reveal  memories  of  antique  sculpture ; 
and  we  believe  that  we  can  see  the  inspiration,  or  the  copy 
of  a  Greek  marble,  in  the  beautiful  body  of  Venus,  who  is 
the  one  nude  female  preserved  to  us  in  all  the  works 
painted  by  Mantegna. 

If  it  was  Isabella  d'Este  who  decreed  the  details  of  this 
composition,  she  was  certainly  well  inspired ;  she  did  still 
better,  too,  in  charging  Mantegna  with  its  execution.  He 
was,  moreover,  particularly  adapted  to  revive  this  vision  of 
antiquity,  for  not  only  was  his  knowledge  of  archaeology 
very  extensive  for  the  period  in  which  he  lived,  but  his 
knowledge  of  letters  was  not  less ;  and  already,  at  the  time 
of  his  visit  to  Rome,  he  had  drawn  in  numerous  composi- 
tions, destined  to  serve  as  cartoons  for  tapestries,  the  tri- 
umphs of  Julius  Caesar,  in  which  he  endeavoured  to  get  as 
near  as  possible  to  antique  models  in  regard  to  the  costumes, 
arms,  caparisons,  and  trophies  of  a  victorious  army  return- 
ing to  Rome. 

Here  the  knowledge  of  the  learned  man  was  useless  and 
had  to  give  place  to  the  imagination  of  the  poet.  This 
was  perhaps  something  quite  new  for  Mantegna,  whose 
talent  had  rarely  been  employed  up  to  this  time  on  a  similar 
subject.  But  notwithstanding  this,  how  much  at  ease  is  he 
in  this  domain,  still  so  new  to  him !     It  is  because  he  had 


PARNASSUS  309 

a  tender  soul,  although  a  somewhat  difficult  character,  and, 
doubtless,  he  was  fascinated  by  the  grace  of  the  classic 
legend,  which,  by  means  of  his  conversations  with  a 
learned  woman  and  with  philosophers  and  poets  of  the 
Renaissance,  he  endeavoured  to  recall  and  to  make  correct 
in  everv  detail. 

The  Duchess  of  Mantua  showed  herself  well  satisfied 
with  this  picture  and  the  master  himself  was,  doubtless,  very 
well  pleased.  We  may  be  allowed  to  think  this  because  he 
either  engraved  himself,  or  had  engraved  in  his  studio,  the 
charming  group  of  Muses,  and  this  he  only  did  for  a  very 
small  number  of  his  pictures. 

But  the  days  of  prosperity  were  succeeded  bv  a  dark 
period  of  reverses  for  Mantua  and  its  dukes.  The  fortunes 
of  war  introduced  troops  from  Germany  and  France.  The 
mural  paintings  which  the  Gonzagas  had,  with  the  lavish- 
ness  of  Mecaenas,  decorated  their  palaces  and  villas,  were 
almost  entirely  destroyed,  and  the  objects  of  art, —  furniture, 
pictures  and  statues, — went  to  enrich  the  collections  of 
other  princes  who  had  acquired,  bv  their  frequent  inter- 
course with  Italv,  artistic  tastes  which  they  satisfied,  in 
consequence,  at  the  expense  of  Italy  herself.  Those 
which  did  not  become  the  spoil  of  the  conqueror,  were 
sold  by  the  Duke  Vincent  to  meet  some  indispensable  ex- 
penses. This  happened  in  1632.  Some  negotiations  were 
begun  between  Mantua  and  L(jndon.  Richelieu  heard  of 
these,  and  intended  to  take  his  part.  He  charged  one  of 
his  agents,  already  sent  to  Rome  to  get  some  statues  and 
antique  busts,  to  go  to  Mantua,  where  he  bought  the  five 


310  PARNASSUS 

pictures  which  had  decorated  the  studiolo  of  Isabella 
d'Este,  and  which  therefore  did  not  have  to  be  separated, 
even  in  the  evil  days. 

Parnassus  and  the  four  other  pictures  came  to  France 
with  the  marbles  of  Rome  to  enrich  the  beautiful  collec- 
tions which  the  great  minister  of  Louis  XIII.  had  gathered 
in  his  chateau  of  Poitou. 

M.  BonnafFe,  who  has  made  these  details  known  to  us  in 
his  book,  Recherches  sur  les  Collections  des  Richelieu^  has  also 
told  us  that  during  the  Revolution  these  pictures  were  re- 
moved, the  Duke  de  Fronsac,  great  nephew  of  the  Car- 
dinal, having  emigrated.  A  transaction  with  the  heirs  as- 
sured them  to  the  Government.  It  was  thus  that  the 
Parnassus  and  the  Combat  of  the  Virtues  with  the  Vices  by 
Mantegna,  the  Combat  of  Love  and  Chastity  by  Perugino, 
and  the  two  pictures  by  Lorenzo  Costa  entered  the  Louvre, 
their  last  resting-place,  in  1801.  To-day  they  are 
grouped  around  another  of  Mantegna's  pictures,  ordered 
by  the  husband  of  Isabella  d'Este,  Giovanni  Francisco  de 
Gonzaga,  who  is  there  represented  at  the  end  of  the 
undecided  battle  of  Fornona,  where  he  wished  to  be  the 
conqueror. 

It  is  a  claim  to  glory  for  a  museum  to  be  able  to  show 
an  authentic  work  by  Mantegna ;  the  Louvre  has  reason  to 
be  proud  of  the  works  of  this  master  which  it  possesses  and 
which  are  ranked  among  his  most  precious  and  important 
ones.  Parnassus  and  the  Combat  of  the  Virtues  and  Vices 
are  the  only  painted  allegorical  scenes  by  Mantegna 
in   existence.      It    is  then   in  the  Louvre    that    he    can 


PARNASSUS  311 

be  seen  under  the  most  diverse  and  unexpected  aspects 
and  nowhere  else  does  the  painter  of  the  Gonzagas 
show  as  he  docs  here  the  many  sides  of  his  great  g'      is. 


.^^     ^  LA  NOTTE 

J;/'!  {Correggio)       " 

ANTONIO  ALLEGRI  was  born  in  Correggio,  from 
which  comes  his  name,  about  the  year  1494,  (the 
date  is  not  very  certain),  the  son  of  Pellegrino  Allegri  and 
Bernardina  Piazzoli.  According  to  the  tradition  of  his 
country,  he  was  taught  the  first  rudiments  of  art  by  his 
uncle  Laurent,  and  then  he  went  to  the  school  of  Fran- 
cesco Bianchi,  called  le  Frari,  in  Modena.  He  learned  at 
the  same  time  to  model  in  clay,  and  he  worked  with  Bega- 
relli  upon  that  group  of  Piety  in  St.  Margaret's  church,  the 
most  beautiful  figures  of  which  are  attributed  to  him. 
From  Modena  they  made  him  go  to  Mantua,  to  Andrea 
Mantegna,  but,  as  it  has  been  since  discovered,  Mantegna 
died  in  1506,  this  supposition  has  been  destroyed,  some- 
what materially  at  least,  for  it  is  necessary  that  an  artist 
should  be  living  in  order  to  form  disciples :  his  works 
reveal  his  place  and  frequently  in  a  more  eloquent  manner 
than  even  words  could  do.  Thus  we  may  admit  very  well 
Mantegna  as  one  of  Correggio's  masters,  no  matter  if  the 
dates  oppose  any  direct  instruction.  Correggio  took  in- 
spiration from  Mantegna  with  the  liberty  of  genius,  and 
made  perfect  that  which  he  had  borrowed,  mingling  it  in 
intimate  amalgamation  with  his  own  natural  qualities. 


LA    W'lTTr 


LA  NOTTE  313 

It  is  rare  happiness  to  find  in  this  world  of  form  which 
seems  hmited  and  where  the  human  body  is  the  eternal 
theme,  an  individual  inflexion,  a  line  as  yet  unknown,  a 
charm  revealed  for  the  first  time.  This  happiness  Cor- 
reggio  possesses  in  the  highest  degree.  He  knew  how  to 
extract  from  both  women  and  children  a  grace  that  no  one 
had  ever  suspected,  a  tender,  lovable  and  .smiling  grace,  and 
which  we  do  not  know  how  to  designate  better  than  by 
using  the  name  of  the  painter  himself  as  an  epithet :  Corrc- 
gian  Grace.  Nothing  else  could  give  an  idea  of  it.  It  is 
not  the  mysterious,  deep,  and  almost  disquieting  and  super- 
natural grace  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  nor  the  calm,  virginal 
and  celestial  grace  of  Raphael ;  it  is  an  indefinable  voluptu- 
ousness, a  perpetual  caress,  an  irresistible  seduction,  where 
there  is,  however,  nothing  lascivious ;  nakedness  with  Cor- 
reggio  has  the  ingenuous  candour  of  infancy  ;  like  Eve  be- 
fore she  sinned,  it  does  not  know  that  it  is  unveiled.  Wc 
insist  upon  this  grace,  because  it  is  the  distinctive  character 
of  the  artist,  the  charm  that  draws  and  keeps  souls  to  him. 
But  it  must  not  be  imagined  that  Correggio  is  a  painter  ex- 
clusively preoccupied  with  the  beautiful,  the  amiable  and 
the  smiling  :  he  was  an  artist  whose  muscular  boldness  and 
audacity  rivalled  Michelangelo  ;  and,  in  order  to  convince 
oneself  of  this,  it  is  necessary  to  see  the  cupola  of  St.  John 
and  the  Du(jmo  of  Parma.  This  suave  and  delicious  Cor- 
reggio possesses  the  most  solid  instruction  of  the  picturesque, 
and  thoroughly  understands  geometry,  and  perspective,  and 
this  enables  him  to  execute  with  mathematical  precision 
these   furc&hortcnings  whose  boldness  is  astonishing.      This 


SH  LA  NOTTE 

science  created  the  style  of  his  drawing  with  its  varying  in- 
finity of  movements  and  points  of  view.  While  most 
painters  are  satisfied  with  rendering  faces  as  they  appear  to 
the  eye,  Correggio  always  paints  his  heads  raised  or  lowered  ; 
they  are  looking  up  or  they  are  looking  down,  the  lines  de- 
scend or  mount  upward  with  deflections  or  unexpected 
turnings,  which  reveal  in  their  outlines  aspects  of  a  strange 
and  charming  novelty :  it  is  the  same  with  his  bodies, 
where  this  knowledge  of  foreshortening  and  perspective 
produces  attitudes,  forms  and  profiles  which  no  pencil  nor 
brush  had  ever  expressed  before.  The  custom  of  model- 
ling in  clay  gave  to  Correggio  this  perfect  feeling  for 
relief  which  we  admire  in  him.  The  figures  are  not  en- 
closed in  a  rigid  outline ;  they  are  painted,  so  to  speak,  in 
round  humps  drawn  in  light  and  shade,  and  seem  to  leap 
out  of  their  surroundings.  Like  objects  in  the  atmosphere, 
they  swim  in  fluid  outlines,  toned  down  and  vaporous,  that 
bathe  them,  envelop  them  and  seem  to  whirl  about  them. 
The  brush,  in  his  hand,  is  a  kind  of  sculptor's  tool  model- 
ling in  masses  and  producing  the  roundness  of  the  forms 
upon  the  canvas  as  if  made  with  clay.  Sometimes,  indeed 
he  painted  after  a  clay  model,  to  get  a  better  idea  of  the 
foreshortening  and  the  projection  of  the  shadows,  a  method 
used  by  the  divine  Lionardo.  There  have  been  preserved 
a  few  of  the  figurines  that  he  used  when  he  worked  upon 
the  frescoes  of  the  Duomo,  and  which  explain  those  attitudes 
impossible  to  imagine  or  to  copy  from  nature.  However,  all 
this  knowledge  is  adorned  with  grace  j  never  does  any  ef- 
fort make  itself  felt,  even  in  the  excesses  and  tours  deforce ; 


LA  NOTTE  315 

a  divine  harmony  envelopes  everything  like  a  light  and  flex- 
ible drapery  that  floats  around  a  beautiful  body. 

An  Italian  critic  calls  Correggio  a  clarified  Lionardo. 
This  remark  is  not  unjust.  The  painter  of  Parma,  like 
the  painter  of  Milan,  leads  from  light  to  shade  by  degrees 
of  infinite  delicacy,  but  the  quality  of  the  shadow  is  not 
the  same.  Black  or  violet,  or,  at  the  very  least,  neuter  in 
tone  with  da  Vinci,  Correggio's  shadow  is  silvery,  trans- 
parent, illumined  with  reflections,  and  would  really  serve 
for  light  with  many  painters  ;  the  artist  has  carried  to  the 
last  illusions  the  magic  o(  chairoscuro^  a  magic  of  which  he 
is  a  kind  of  inventor,  for  before  him  the  palette  had  no 
knowledge  of  these  marvellous  resources.  But  these  lights 
of  shadow,  these  clearnesses  of  shadow  take  nothing  from 
the  solidity  of  the  bodies.  They  play  upon  their  surfaces 
and  do  not  penetrate  into  them.  They  have  indeed  a  rela- 
tive intensity  which  leaves  all  their  value  upon  the  parts 
touched  by  the  light.  The  local  tone  of  the  objects  pur- 
sues it  and  finds  it,  without  attracting  the  eye.  The  white- 
nesses of  the  flesh  are  not  surrounded  by  those  swarthy  or 
wood-coloured  zones  which  too  often  represent  the  shadow 
in  pictures  that  are  otherwise  admirable  and  full  of  sublime 
qualities.  This  perfect  homogeneity  of  the  bright  parts 
and  the  dark  parts  give  to  Correggio's  figures  a  rare  power 
of  relief;  they  detach  themselves  from  the  block  of  the 
backg'-ound  spread  out  behind  them  and  exhibit  themselves 
to  the  eye  with  all  the  appearance  of  life-like  objects  per- 
ceived in  a  mirror.  At  the  approach  of  twilight,  when  the 
canvasses  in  the  galleries  extinguish  themselves  one  by  one, 


3l6  LA  NOTTE 

and  present  themselves  only  as  confused  blots,  Correggio's 
pictures  keep  the  light  and  seem  to  illuminate  themselves; 
the  personages  assume  an  intense  and  mysterious  life,  one 
would  say  they  mean  to  come  out  of  the  frames  like  tab- 
leaux vivants  when  the  effect  is  produced,  and  that  they 
must  take  new  poses  for  another  group.  As  the  sun  lin- 
gers upon  the  high  mountains  long  after  night  has  bathed 
the  valleys,  light  abandons  these  high  summits  of  art  re- 
gretfully. 

It  is  in  Dresden  that  this  fascinating  picture,  so  inappro- 
priately called  Correggio's  Night  and  to  which  the  name  of 
Aurora  would  be  rnore  suitable,  is  to  be  found.  Nothing 
in  this  radiant  canvas  gives  you  the  idea  of  darkness ; 
dawn  is  breaking  behind  the  distant  mountains  that  you  see 
through  the  stable  door,  constructed  of  frame-work  resting 
upon  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  edifice :  and  the  whole  picture 
is  illuminated  by  a  supernatural  light  that  is  emanating 
from  the  body  of  the  Infant  Jesus.  The  new-born  child 
in  the  lap  of  Mary  gives  out  such  brilliancy  that,  like  the 
sun,  he  illuminates  all  the  objects  surrounding  him.  The 
Virgin's  face,  lovingly  bending  towards  him,  receives 
silvery  reflections  of  an  ideal  transparency  and  freshness. 
The  smile  of  the  happy  mother  causes  its  rosy  line  to  wave 
across  the  whiteness  of  mother  of  pearl,  milk,  or  opal, 
where  the  long  lashes  of  lowered  eyes  are  slightly  traced  in 
light  shadow.  Touched  by  this  celestial  splendour,  the 
humble  straw  of  the  manger  shines  like  the  golden  threads 
of  an  aureole.  The  splendour  flashes  upon  the  handsome 
shepherdess  who  is  bringing  a  couple  of  turtle-doves  in  a 


LA  NOTTE  317 

basket  and  makes  a  naive  gesture  of  wonder  at  the  divine 
baby  :  it  enlightens  the  young  herdsman,  who,  with  one 
hand  on  the  edge  of  the  manger  and  the  other  on  the  back 
of  a  large  dog,  raises  his  head  in  ecstasy  and  seems  to  be 
contemplating  with  a  \  isionary  glance  the  group  of  angels 
who  are  balancing  themselves  on  a  cloud  in  the  ceiling  of 
the  stable  ;  and  finally  it  comes  up  to  that  old  shepherd 
of  Herculean  build,  holding  a  stick  that  looks  like  a  club  or 
an  uprooted  tree,  and  who  is  scratching  his  head  with  an 
embarrassed  air  like  a  peasant  in  the  presence  of  a  king. 
One  cannot  imagine  with  what  miraculous  art  that  light 
leaving  its  peculiar  source  is  conducted,  diminished  and 
melted  from  the  centre  to  the  edge  of  the  picture.  All 
these  figures  are  bathed  in  it  as  if  in  the  atmosphere  of 
paradise.  Never  did  a  colourist  play  more  powerfully  with 
such  a  difficult  problem,  and  this  is  not  a  vain  tour  de  force ^ 
but  it  is  the  triumphant  expression  ot  an  idea,  perfectly 
charming,  perfectly  poetic,  and  full  of  tenderness,  which 
could  only  belong  to  the  happy  genius  of  Correggio.  That 
feeble  little  one,  that  baby  crying  on  the  straw  and  shed- 
ding about  him  in  the  stable  even  now  that  light  whose 
radiance  will  illumine  the  whole  world  !  The  Virgin  is  not 
astonished,  perhaps,  indeed  she  does  not  see  anything  \ — 
every  child  is  glorious  to  its  mother  ! — and  with  a  passion- 
ate caress  she  makes  a  cradle  for  him  with  her  arms,  and 
presses  him  to  her  heart. 

In  the  corner  towards  the  top  of  the  picture,  the  angels 
fly  about  joyfully  in  those  foreshortened  ceiling  attitudes  so 
loved   by    Correggio,  and    which   take  nothing   from   their 


3l8  LA  NOTTE 

celestial  gracCo  They  support  themselves  by  their  very 
lightness  and  even  if  they  should  forget  to  move  their 
wings  ihey  need  not  fear  falling.  The  clouds  with  their 
bluish  flakes  not  only  give  them  support,  but  form  for  them 
an  atmosphere  and  separate  them  from  the  human  beings. 

In  the  middle  distance,  Saint  Joseph  is  clutching  the  ass 
by  the  mane  to  lead  him  to  th:  manger.  Further  away, 
two  young  boys  hold  the  ox  by  his  horns.  Is  it  not  neces- 
sary that  the  dumb  creation  should  have  these  two 
witnesses  to  the  birth  of  our  Saviour  ?  Good  and  gentle 
beasts  touched  dimly  in  their  souls  that  are  warming  the 
child  with  their  breath  !  This  familiar  and  tender  detail,  of 
pure  naturalism,  gives  to  the  scene  an  appearance  of  real 
life  without  detracting  from  the  divine  side.  Nothing 
strained,  nothing  forced,  and  nothing  of  false  grandeur,  but 
everywhere  the  most  lovable  grace. 


CEDIPUS 

(Ingrn) 

CHARLES  BLANC 

IN  the  second  year  of  his  sojourn  in  Rome,  after  having 
painted  Mme.  Devau^ay,  Ingres  produced  a  master- 
piece, CEdipus  explaining  the  Riddle^  in  which  for  the  hrst 
time  he  affirmed  his  individual  manner  of  understanding 
and  feeling. 

In  order  thoroughly  to  appreciate  this  admirable  painting, 
it  is  well  to  ask  how  David  conceived  it.  If  I  am  not 
mistaken,  he  wanted  to  present  this  strange  and  mysterious 
myth  of  Destiny  under  chaste  and  pure  forms,  all  of 
which  should  be  borrowed  from  archaic  sculpture,  or 
engraved  gems,  or  Greek  vases ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
his  (Edipus  was  to  be  nothing  but  an  abstract  image  of  the 
ancient  Fatality.  More  of  an  artist  than  his  master,  and 
more  emotional,  Ingres  has  represented  not  only  a  mytho- 
logical emblem,  a  legend,  but  also  a  man,  a  certain  man 
whose  form  is  sufficiently  individual  to  have  lived  in 
former  times,  and  sufficiently  ideal  for  him  to  keep  up  the 
prestige  of  a  fabulous  being  seen  through  the  ages  that  have 
elapsed. 

At  once  dignified,  familiar,  tranquil  and  sure  of  himself, 
CEdipus  has  entered  the  cavern  in  which  lie  the  bones  and 
dreadful   fragments  of  those  whom  the  Sphynx  has  torn  to 


320  CEDIPUS 

pieces.  He  has  advanced  towards  the  monster,  set  his  foot 
on  a  slab  of  rock  and  resting  his  elbow  upon  his  knee,  hr 
is  explaining  the  riddle  whilst  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  in  a 
penetrating  and  firm  gaze  on  the  daughter  of  Typhon. 
Instead  of  being  severely  straight,  his  profile  is  slightly 
curved.  His  youthful  beard  interferes  with  his  resem- 
blance to  a  statue.  With  an  energy  that  leaves  the  habits 
of  the  school  far  behind,  the  painter  accentuates  most 
strongly  the  fold  that  forms  the  muscle  of  the  neck  on  the  , 
raised  head  of  the  hero,  as  well  as  the  vigorous  calf  of  the 
young  Theban  so  well  accustomed  to  all  kinds  of  fatigue. 
By  these  unexpected  accents  the  artist  has  sufficiently  in- 
dividualized his  figure  till  there  is  nothing  conventional, 
nothing  vulgarly  familiar  in  it ;  and  it  appears  to  us  as  if  it 
were  that  of  a  man  who  had  really  been  hung  from  the  tree 
on  Mount  Cithaeron,  who  really  tore  out  his  own  eyes,  and 
who  indeed  expired  at  Colonna,  in  the  grove  of  the  Eumen- 
ides.  It  is  thus  that  where  others  would  have  only  dressed 
a  work  with  frigid  rhetoric,  Ingres  has  managed  to  find 
expressive  eloquence  and  touch  our  hearts. 

And  yet  in  some  parts  this  modelling  makes  us  feel  that 
the  individual  is  apart  from  prose  history,  and  remains 
intangible  in  regions  to  which  we  are  forbidden  to  attain 
otherwise  than  by  the  gaze. 

This  unforeseen  mingling  of  life  and  immortality,  this 
happy  fusion  of  the  mythical  and  the  real,  are  especially 
striking  in  the  figure  of  the  Sphynx,  a  figure  at  the  same 
time  alive  and  symbolical.  Divine  in  the  purity  of  its 
features,  infernal  in  the  action  of  its  protruding  claws,  it 


1 


CXDIPUS  321 

expresses  the  genius  of  evil  governed  bv  the  intelligence, 
beauty  conquered  by  the  mind.  At  the  back  of  the  cavern 
into  which  CEdipus  has  ventured,  the  painter  has  not  hesi- 
tated to  let  us  see  the  feet  of  a  corpse  and  the  skeletons  of 
those  who  have  been  devoured  by  the  Sphynx  :  another  e\  en 
more  powerful  means  of  adding  to  the  interest  of  the  scene, 
and  to  human  emotion,  so  as  to  put  his  finger  upon  all  that 
was  tragical  in  the  situation  in  the  son  of  Laius,  so  tran- 
quilly face  to  face  with  a  frightful  death. 

If  we  can  form  a  just  idea  of  Greek  painting  from  the 
frescoes  of  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum,  and  from  mosaics, 
nothing  more  certainly  resembles  it  than  the  painting  of 
Ingres,  so  far  as  execution  and  style  are  concerned.  As  for 
the  style,  it  is  not  strained  nearly  so  far  in  this  picture  as  in 
certain  of  the  other  works  of  this  master:  it  is  elevated  but 
natural;  heroic  but  human.  Ingres  has  managed  to  mix 
together  in  small  doses  the  familiar  element  that  preserves 
one  from  mflation  of  style,  that  tempers  decorum,  and  that 
he  employs  perhaps  unknown  to  himsalf,  like  those  com- 
mon expressions  of  which  Bossuet  makes  use  with  such 
genius  in  order  to  humanize  the  sublime.  It  is  even  to  be 
noticed  that  where  the  painter  lays  most  stress  on  the 
individuality  of  his  hero,  for  example,  ii  the  shape  of  the 
nose,  the  muscles  of  the  neck  or  leg,  he  does  so  with  a 
spice  of  exaggeration  and  a  certain  passionate  accent  that 
without  doubt  belong  to  the  modern  spirit,  but  which  arc 
panicuUrly  characteristic  of  kie  {xrrBonal  kumcnir, — r^ 
temperament  of  Ingres  himself. 

The  execution  is  simple,  frank  and  limpid  i  moreover,  it 


322  CEDIPUS 

is  carried  out  with  great  spirit,  and  almost  looks  as  if  it  had 
been  painted  from  a  single  palette.  In  it,  we  feel  the  en- 
thusiasm of  youth  restrained  by  the  painter's  respect  for  his 
work.  To-day,  even  when  more  than  half  a  century  has 
passed  across  the  canvas,  we  can  see  how  advantageous  it 
is  to  employ  pure  and  strong  colours  which  tranquillize 
without  fading  with  time  and  grow  reconciled  to  one 
another  without  weakness,  rather  than  to  paint  with  colours 
that  are  already  tempered  for  the  sake  of  harmony,  and  are 
therefore  already  smoked.  The  tone  of  the  CEdipus  now 
is  superb,  its  primitive  intensity  having  calmed  down  with- 
out however  disappearing.  Just  as  distance  tones  down  to 
our  ears  the  rude  and  jarring  sounds  of  martial  music,  so 
the  years  soften  to  our  eyes  the  violence  and  harshness  of 
colour.  Ingres  is  all  of  a  piece  :  his  colouring  is  sometimes 
startling  in  order  to  render  the  beauties  of  form  more 
sensible ;  and  sometimes  it  is  sacrificed  to  the  grandeur  and 
triumph  of  his  idea:  that  is  to  say  that  he  gives  exactly  the 
colouring  that  is  demanded  by  a  desired,  well  thought  out 
and  expressive  design,  and  one  that  is  made  to  be  deeply 
engraved  in  the  memory  and  upon  brass.  The  CEdipus  and 
the  Bather  (back  view)  are  of  the  same  year  (1808).  One 
would  not  be  able  to  cite  many  pensioners  who  have  sent  in 
two  such  works  ^t  the  same  tinie  I 


*^  VX'' 


t- 


<(^.^^/,*t^^ 


THE  ANNUNCIATION 

^■-'^  COSMO  MONKHOUSE 

IN  Room  No.  i  you  will  see  on  the  west  wall  a  sad- 
coloured  picture,  robbed  by  time  and  over-cleaning 
of  all  its  once-beautiful  surface,  or  may  we  not  say  com- 
plexion, of  paint,  and  immediately  below  it  another,  long 
and  narrow,  which  still  gleams  and  glows  with  nearly  all  its 
pristine  fife,  as  though  it  were  painted  over  gold  with  trans- 
lucent enamel.  The  former  is  Fra  Lippo  Lippi's  Vision  of 
S.  Bernard  (No.  248),  and  the  latter  is  The  Adoration  of  the 
Magi ;  or  the  IFise  Alen  s  Offerings  (No.  592),  which  is 
ascribed  in  the  catalogue  to  Filippino  Lippi,  the  son  of 
Lippo,  but  is  thought  by  many  good  judges  to  be  by 
Botticelli,  the  pupil  of  Lippo  and  the  master  of  Filippino. 
At  first  sight  there  is  not  perhaps  much  that  is  common  to 
the  two  pictures,  but  if  we  carefully  compare  thini  with 
those  earlier  Italian  paintings  in  the  Gallerv,  the  works  of 
the  Giotteschi,  of  Fra  Angclico,  and  even  of  his  pupil 
Bcnozzo  Gozzoli,  we  shall  be  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  a  new  element  of  interest  of  a  more  familiar  and  com- 
panionable kind,  which  may  be  shortly  and  broadly  described 
as  "humanity."  It  is  easy  enough  to  find  ihib  clement  in 
the  picture  of  The  Jdoration^  for  every  figure  of  the  motley 
groups  that  follow  "the  kings"  is  an  individual  whose  per- 


324  THE  ANNUNCIATION 

sonality  is  distinctly,  sometimes  humorously  and  even 
whimsically,  marked  ;  but  there  is  "  character  "  also  in  Fra 
Lippo's  picture  of  S.  Bernard's  vision.  His  S.  Bernard  is 
no  conventional  saint,  whose  traditional  features  are  a  mere 
mask  to  express  a  given  feeling.  He  is  not  only  a  saint, 
but  a  man,  and  his  painter  was  interested  in  him  personally, 
and  did  his  best  to  realize  how  such  a  man  and  none  other 
would  look  as,  lifting  his  eyes  from  his  desk,  he  saw  the 
Virgin  and  her  attendant  angels  between  himself  and  the 
wall.  He  has  truly  made  the  face  the  window  of  the  soul, 
if  not  for  the  first  time  in  art,  at  least  for  the  first  time  in 
art  as  represented  in  the  National  Gallery. 

If  we  pass  into  Room  2  we  shall  see  this  human  quality 
in  Fra  Lippo's  art  still  more  fully  displayed.  Here  we 
have  two  of  the  most  characteristic  and  exquisite  works  of 
his  earlier  period.  The  Annunciation  (No.  666)  and  S.  John 
the  Baptist  with  six  other  Saints  (No.  667).  It  is  naturally 
in  the  latter  that  his  keen  observation  of  his  fellow-men, 
and  his  sympathy  with  their  individualities,  are  the  more 
fully  displayed.  All  these  saints  are  also  men,  clearly 
characterized.  Their  heads  are,  indeed,  more  or  less 
typical,  but  they  are  individual  also.  They  are  like  por- 
traits "  idealized,"  as  we  say,  in  conformity  with  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  particular  saints.  The  features  and  gestures 
of  some  of  them,  we  may  assert  with  confidence  (and  this 
we  could  not  do  with  regard  to  any  of  Fra  Angelico's 
saints),  were  studied  from  men  who  were  alive  in  Florence 
when  the  picture  was  painted,  probably  intimate  acquaint- 
ances of  the  painter,  if  not  monks  in  that  Carmelit'e  ton- 


THE  ANNUNCIATION  325 

vent  which  he  entered  at  an  early  age.  They  have  all 
different  modes  of  expressing  their  attention  to  the  golden 
words  which  fall  from  the  mouth  of  the  Baptist.  S.  Cosmo 
looks  up,  S.  Damian  looks  down,  the  eyes  of  S.  Francis  are 
fixed  on  S.  John,  those  of  S.  Lawrence  on  the  ground,  or 
perhaps  on  the  "stigmata"  of  S.  Francis,  S.  Anthony 
stretches  his  right  hand  towards  the  speaker,  S.  Peter 
iVIartyr  holds  his  up  to  his  ear  as  if  in  fear  to  lose  a  word. 
Without  undue  familiarity  there  is  a  sense  of  society  ;  the 
feeling  as  well  as  the  composition  is  bound  in  one  by  a  tic 
of  human  sympathy.  It  is  a  holy  "  conversation  piece,"  to 
use  a  term  employed  in  the  Eighteenth  Century  to  denote 
a  portrait  composition  in  which  several  persons  are  grouped 
together  in  a  social  manner. 

The  jinnunciation  is  conceived  in  much  the  same  spirit 
of  tender  and  poetic  realism.  Robbed  of  his  nimbus  and 
wings  the  announcing  angel  is  only  a  comely,  round-headed 
Florentine  boy  with  closely  curling  hair,  who  delivers  his 
message  with  simple  and  charming  grace,  and  she,  the 
Virgin  who  receives  it  with  so  sweet  and  humble  a  cour- 
tesy, might  be  his  sister.  But  if  the  tvpes  are  not  very  dis- 
tinguished or  the  emotion  greatly  elevated,  the  whole  com- 
position is  lovely  and  harmonious.  The  gentle  bearing  of 
the  angel  is  beautifully  echoed  by  the  timid  reverence  of 
the  Virgin  and  the  note  of  delightful  wonder  whii  h  these 
figures  strike  is  sustained  at  the  same  pitch  throughout  by 
the  strangeness,  the  variety,  and  the  beauty  of  the  details. 
From  the  ex(|uisite  wings  of  the  angel  to  the  richly  coloured 
marbles  which   floor  the  Virgin's  little  coun,  everything  in 


326  THE  ANNUNCIATION 

the  picture  is  rare  and  lovely,  and  as  we  stand  before  it  we 
feel  ourselves  in  an  enchanted  land,  if  not  in  the  presence 
of  an  awful  mystery. 

Not  the  least  thing  worthy  of  note  in  these  two  priceless 
pictures  is  their  colour.  They  have  fortunately  been  well 
preserved,  and  show  us  that  Lippo  Lippi  was  the  first  of 
the  great  painter-colourists.  No  one  before  had  devised 
schemes  of  colour  so  personal  to  himself,  a  palette  so  com- 
pletely his  own  ;  no  one  had  so  felt  the  beauty  of  "  broken  " 
colour,  of  the  lovely  modifications  of  which  a  pure  colour 
was  capable  by  reduction  with  white  or  mixture  with  other 
colours,  or  the  endless  harmonies  which  could  be  produced 
by  weaving  them  together.  Many  of  the  colours  he 
obtained,  as  for  instance  his  shoaling  pinks  and  dewy  blues, 
were  new  to  painting,  and  for  the  prevalent  tint  of  the  rich 
arrangement  of  reds  in  the  Virgin's  chamber,  we  may 
almost  seek  in  vain  elsewhere  in  the  National  Gallery. 
With  the  aid  of  his  greys  and  semitones  he  enforced  his 
stronger  colours,  and  at  the  same  time  made  them  live  to- 
gether in  a  harmony  which  in  its  combination  of  softness 
and  lustre  has  seldom  been  equalled. 

These  two  pictures  once  belonged  to  Cosimo  de'  Medici 
(1389-1464),  and  remained  in  the  palace  which  he  built  at 
Florence  (to  which  the  name  of  his  family  has  again  been 
restored,  after  passing  for  more  than  a  century  under  that 
of  its  last  private  owners,  the  Riccardi)  till  the  year  1846. 
Signs  of  their  former  ownership  are  visible  in  both  pictures. 
S.  John  Baptist  the  patron  saint  of  Florence,  is  seated  be- 
tween S.  Cosmo  and  S.  Damian,  the  patron  saints  of  the 


THE  ANNUNCIATION  327 

Medici,  and  on  the  plinth,  which  upholds  the  Virgin's  vase 
of  lilies,  is  carved  the  badge  of  Cosimo,  three  feathers  tied 
together  in  a  ring,  Cosmo  ai>d  Daniian,  according  to  the 
legend,  were  brothers  famous  for  their  skill  in  medicine, 
which  thev  practiced,  without  recompense,  for  charity  and 
the  love  of  God.  Arabs  by  birth,  they  dwelt  in  the  town 
of  Algoe  in  Cilicia,  and  suffered  martyrdom  under  Diocle- 
tian (245-313)  and  Alaximian  (286-308).  These  two 
"  Santi  medici  Arabi  "  are  always  represented  together,  in 
the  habit  of  physicians,  with  loose  red  robes,  and  generally 
red  caps,  as  in  this  picture.  The  robes  are  usually  trimmed 
with  fur.  They  occur  most  frequently  in  Florentine  pic- 
tures in  the  time  of  Cosimo,  but  we  shall  find  them  on  the 
frame  of  the  Landini  (No.  580),  and  in  the  late  Greek  pic- 
ture by  Emmanuel  (No.  594),  which,  though  supposed  to 
have  been  executed  in  the  Seventeenth  Century,  belongs  to 
a  stage  of  art  anterior  not  only  to  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  but  to 
Giotto. 

These  pictures  of  S.  John  and  the  Annunciation,  though 
religious  (even  more,  perhaps,  because  they  are  religious)  in 
subject,  show  what  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of  the 
artist  in  the  Fifteenth  Century.  Though  by  no  means 
casting  aside  all  tradition,  he  was  no  longer  bound  by  it,  as 
with  swaddling  clothes.  He  no  longer  looked  on  the  pic- 
tures of  bygone  artists  as  the  only  source  of  art,  but  turned 
boldly  to  nature  for  his  models  and  his  inspiration.  He 
marched  out  from  the  cloisters  into  the  world,  and  enjoyed 
for  the  first  time  its  freshness  and  its  wonder.  Life  was 
not    only    new   and    beautiful   to   him,   but   it   was    full  of 


328  THE  ANNUNCIATION 

romance  wherever  he  turned.  The  long-pent  intellect  and 
imagination  of  mankind  poured  forth  in  a  stream  which 
turned  every  object  into  gold.  Before  the  clear,  strong,  but 
unsentimental  eyes  of  a  man  like  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  the 
world  was  a  panorama  of  endless  variety,  a  pageant  of  in- 
exhaustible interest ;  to  the  poetic  dreamer  like  Lippo 
Lippi  it  was  a  perpetual  source  of  sweet  vision,  a  boundless 
playground  of  the  fancy.  In  this  age  of  search  and  inven- 
tion, of  discovery  and  rediscovery,  when  every  step  was  on 
virgin  soil,  or  on  ground  unbroken  for  centuries,  the 
painters  were  not  the  least  to  be  envied.  For  them,  unlike 
the  painters  of  to-day,  no  glorious  array  of  masterpieces 
stood  like  the  giants  of  old  across  the  road,  intimidating 
their  enterprise  and  forestalling  their  conceptions.  Their 
forerunners  had  only  shown  the  way  into  an  untrodden 
country  of  inexhaustible  beauty  and  romantic  interest.  For 
these  had  been  the  journey  through  the  desert,  led,  indeed, 
by  pillars  of  smoke  and  fire,  but  not  for  them  the  promised 
land. 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  works,  was 
thoroughly  equipped  by  Nature  to  enjoy  all  the  good  gifts 
of  the  earth.  Richly  dowered  as  an  artist  with  the  sense 
of  colour  and  of  decorative  beauty,  he  had  also  the  tempera- 
ment of  a  poet,  keenly  alive  to  all  that  was  interesting  in 
human  life,  sensitive  to  the  different  moods  of  different 
men,  following  and  noting  the  subtlest  shades  of  expres- 
sion which  flitted  over  their  faces,  especially  when  they 
were  transfigured  with  a  fine  emotion.  But  he  was  not  a 
saint  for  all  that.     His  sympathies  with  his  fellow-creatures 


THE  ANNUNCIATION  329 

extended  indeed  to  their  moments  of  religious  enthusiasm, 
and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  he  had  such  moments 
himself,  but  he  was  a  man  of  ill-regulated  life,  and  a 
scandal  to  the  Order  to  which  he  belonged.  The  scandal 
was,  perhaps,  not  entirely  his  fault,  for,  if  he  had  been  left 
to  his  own  free  will,  it  is  very  unlikely  that  he  would  have 
chosen  to  become  a  monk.  But  he  had  practically  no 
choice,  for  his  parents  being  dead,  he  was  consigned,  when 
eight  years  of  age,  to  the  Carmelite  Convent  of  the  Car- 
mine at  Florence,  where  he  was  brought  up  and  educated, 
and  at  the  age  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  took  the  vows.  This 
was  in  the  year  142 1,  when  Masaccio  began  to  paint  his 
famous  frescoes  in  the  Brancacci  Chapel  of  the  Church  of 
S.  Maria  del  Carmine  adjoining  the  convent.  The  young 
monk,  who  soon  showed  a  greater  disposition  to  paint  than 
to  pray,  no  doubt  watched  the  wonderful  young  genius, 
may  have  received  lessons  from  him,  and  certainly  studied 
his  work  with  enthusiasm.  It  is  very  probable  that  a  warm 
friendship  may  have  sprung  up  between  the  two  youths, 
for,  after  all,  there  were  but  five  years  between  them, 
although  Masaccio  was  already  a  master — and  the  greatest 
that  had  appeared  since  Giotto.  In  a  few  years  he  went 
away  to  Rome,  and  Lippi  saw  him  no  more,  for  he  died 
there  about  1428,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six  or  twenty-seven. 
Three  years  after  this,  Lippi  was  allowed  to  leave  the  con- 
vent, having  in  the  meantime  probably  executed  some 
works  in  the  Carmine  (now  destroyed),  which  gained  him 
great  reputation.  According  to  Vasari,  many  said  that 
"  the  soul  of  Masaccio  had  flitted  into  the  body  of  Filippo." 


330  THE  ANNUNCIATION 

Though  he  left  the  convent,  he  was  not  released  from  his 
vows,  and,  still  wearing  his  monastic  habit,  went  about 
pursuing  his  profession  as  a  painter.  Also  according  to 
Vasari,  he  met  with  strange  adventures  in  his  wanderings — 
was  seized  by  Barbary  pirates  at  Ancona,  and  obtained  his 
release  by  painting  the  portrait  of  his  master.  Though 
this  story  is  now  discredited,  his  doings  during  the  years 
following  his  exit  from  the  convent  are  not  so  fully  filled 
up  as  to  leave  no  room  for  romantic  conjecture.  The 
first  time  we  hear  of  him  again  is  in  1434,  when  he  is  said 
to  have  worked  at  Padua.  The  next  in  1438,  when  he 
was  painting  for  San  Spirito  in  Florence  a  picture  which  is 
now  in  the  Louvre. 

At  this  time  his  "  wanderings  "  were  probably  over,  as 
he  was  in  full  employment  at  Florence,  though  still  very 
poor.  There  is  a  letter  from  him  extant,  dated  the  follow- 
ing year,  in  which  he  applies  to  Pietro  de'Medici  for  bread 
and  wine,  "  on  account "  of  an  unfinished  picture,  "  as  he 
is  one  of  the  poorest  monks  in  Florence,  and  has  to  pro- 
vide for  six  poor  nieces,  still  minors."  Down  to  this  time 
(and  later)  there  is  no  evidence  of  those  ''  scandals,"  which 
have  so  much  affected  poor  Lippi's  character,  and  the  testi- 
mony of  his  earlier  pictures,  including  those  in  the  National 
Gallery,  which  are  so  pure  and  reverent  in  spirit,  is 
strongly  in  his  favour.  At  all  events,  it  is  only  fair  to 
him,  if  we  reject  the  evidence  of  tradition  with  regard  to 
his  romantic  adventures,  to  give  him  the  benefits  of  any 
doubts  as  to  his  moral  conduct,  which  are  founded  on  no 
stronger  evidence.     Although  the  times  were  tolerant   in 


THE  ANNUNCIATION  331 

this  respect,  it  is  not  probable,  if  he  had  then  been'  a 
very  notorious  evil  liver,  that  Pope  Eugenius  IV.  would  in 
1442  have  appointed  him  Rector  of  S.  Quirico  in  Legnaia, 
especially  as  he  deprived  him  of  this  office  in  1450  for 
misconduct.  It  must,  however,  be  confessed  that  this  mis- 
conduct, if  proved,  was  of  a  nature  not  easy  to  forgive,  as 
it  consisted  of  refusing  to  pay  a  pupil  a  sum  of  forty  golden 
florins,  which  he  owed  him,  and,  what  is  worse,  of  forging 
a  receipt  for  the  money.  The  proof,  however,  was  his 
own  confession  extorted  by  torture,  and  he  appealed  against 
the  sentence.  It  is  one  of  the  inexplicable  facts  of  his 
history  that,  though  the  sentence  was  confirmed  by  a  brief 
of  Pope  Calixtus  III.,  in  1455,  in  which  the  painter  is 
accused  of  "  numerous  and  abominable  wickedness,"  he  re- 
appears in  the  following  year  as  chaplain  of  the  Convent 
of  S.  Margherita  at  Prato.  Here  he  sadly  abused  his 
privileges,  for,  having  persuaded  the  superintendent  of  the 
convent  to  allow  a  beautiful  nun  named  Lucrezia  Buti  to 
give  him  sittings  for  a  picture  of  the  Virgin,  he  made  use 
of  the  opportunity  to  engage  her  affections,  and  contrived, 
during  a  religious  ceremony,  to  carry  her  off  to  his  lodg- 
ings. It  was  some  years  before  the  scandal  was  allayed, 
but  at  last  the  Pope,  partly,  no  doubt,  through  the  interven- 
tion of  the  Medici,  absolved  both  nun  and  friar  from  their 
vows,  and  recognized  their  marriage. 

Whatever  errors  Fra  Lippo  may  have  committed  in  his 
life,  they,  at  this  distance  of  time,  appear  trivial  in  com- 
parison with  the  virtue  of  his  work.  With  him,  it  may  be 
truly  said,  that  the  evil  perishes  and  the  good  remains.     He 


332  THE  ANNUNCIATION 

may  have  been  a  scandal  to  his  Order  and  a  trouble  to  his 
friends,  but  he  has  been  a  benefactor  to  the  world.  Even 
the  greatest  of  his  enormities,  his  elopement  with  Lucrezia, 
had  no  worse  result  for  us  who  live  now  than  the  birth  of 
Filippino  Lippi,  the  exquisite  painter  who  inherited  his 
father's  genius,  without,  so  far  as  we  know,  his  weaknesses 
of  character,  and  dowered  the  world  with  works  of  im- 
perishable beauty.  If  Lippo  was  not  always  just  to  his 
pupils  in  pecuniary  matters,  he  at  least  taught  them  well, 
for  he  was  one  of  those  comparatively  few  good  painters 
who  have  also  been  good  masters. 


THE  CARDINAL-PRINCE  FERDINAND 

(  Vela5que£) 

CARL  JUSTI 

IN  the  Torre  de  la  Parada  and  in  the  same  apartment 
containing  the  series  of  large  hunting-pieces  there 
hung  three  figures,  the  King,  his  brother  Don  Ferdinand 
(the  cardinal)  and  his  little  son  Balthasar,  in  hunting  cos- 
tume and  with  dogs.  After  the  fire  they  passed  to  the 
Bourbon  Palace,  Madrid,  and  are  now  in  the  Prado.  But 
the  palace  inventory  itself  for  1686 — that  is,  for  the  same 
period — mentions  two  hunting-portraits  of  the  king  in  the 
apartment  of  the  tower  facing  the  park,  which  was  also  set 
apart  for  hunting-pieces.  Replicas  must  consequently 
have  existed  of  both,  possibly  of  all  three,  and  in  fact,  such 
replicas  are  still  extant. 

Although  the  three  portraits  are  exactly  the  same  height 
(1.9 1  metre),  agree  somewhat  closely  in  arrangement,  cos- 
tume and  scenery,  and  seem  to  supplement  each  other  in 
various  details,  yet  they  cannot  all  have  been  produced 
simultaneously.  According  to  his  stated  age  {anno  aetatis 
sua  vi.)  the  young  prince  was  taken  in  1635,  and  his 
father  about  the  same  year,  that  is  long  after  Ferdinand 
had  left  Spain  (1632).  Judging  from  his  very  juvenile 
features,  Velasquez  must  have  painted  him  even  before  the 
first  Italian  journey.     This  passionate  lover  of  sport,  arch- 


334  THE  CARDINAL-PRINCE  FERDINAND 

bishop  and  primate  while  in  his  teens,  had  probably  been 
anxious  for  once  to  see  himself  in  the  garb  of  a  hunter. 
Then  during  his  long  absence  abroad,  this  portrait  may 
have  suggested  to  the  king  to  have  himself  painted  in  like 
costume,  as  a  pendent  piece,  in  memory  of  the  happy  days 
they  had  both  spent  together  in  the  hunting-grounds  of  El 
Prado. 

This  is  the  only  known  portrait  of  Prince  Ferdinand  by 
our  master;  all  others,  and  they  are  numerous  enough, 
were  executed  during  the  last  years  that  he  spent  in  Flan- 
ders (1636-41),  by  such  famous  Flemish  artists  as  Rubens, 
Van  Dyck,  and  Caspar  Van  Crayer.  Ferdinand,  third  son 
of  Philip  III.,  was  born  in  1609,  and  in  his  ninth  year  re- 
ceived the  archbishopric  of  Toledo,  and  two  years  later 
(1620)  the  red  hat.  He  was  thus  one  of  the  eight  who 
were  made  cardinals  before  their  fourteenth  year,  and  who, 
all  but  one,  flourished  in  the  first  half  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century. 

On  the  death  of  Albert  (162 1)  the  intention  was  enter- 
tained of  sending  one  of  Philip  IV. 's  younger  brothers,  at 
first  Carlos,  to  be  brought  up  in  Flanders,  and  in  due 
course  succeed  the  Infanta  Isabella  as  Stadtholder  of  the 
Low  Countries.  In  1623  Ferdinand  was  designated,  but 
owing  to  Olivares'  intrigues,  the  matter  was  postponed  for 
years.  At  last  Isabella,  who  felt  her  end  approaching  (she 
died  in  1633),  wrote  that  unless  he  be  sent  at  once  Flan- 
ders would  be  lost  to  Spain.  He  accordingly  started  for 
Barcelona  in  1632,  in  order  to  prepare  himself  by  a  year's 
adminstration  of  Catalonia,  and  then  left  Spain  forever. 


TIM.    <   Mtliiv  A  I.  -  IIIINi  i:     It.KMNAMi 


THE  CARDINAL-PRINCE  FERDINAND  335 

He  was  the  handsomest  and  the  most  richly  endowed  of 
the  three  brothers,  without  a  trace  of  that  indolence  which, 
since  the  death  of  Philip  II,,  seemed  to  have  clung  to  the 
family.  His  activity  in  business  and  in  the  field  was 
amazing ;  he  shared  with  the  king  his  passion  for  sport, 
and  in  1639  slew  a  wild  boar  in  the  Brussels  woods,  which 
had  killed  eight  dogs,  wounded  four,  and  ripped  up  two 
horses.  Those  in  his  immediate  intimacy  called  him  "  the 
kindliest  and  most  courteous  prince  that  Heaven  has  sent 
us  for  centuries." 

In  our  portrait,  however,  not  much  more  than  the  head 
belongs  to  the  likeness  taken  in  1628.  Here  he  appears  as 
a  slim,  beardless  youth,  whose  pale  face  is  relieved  by 
narrow  shadows  accentuated  especially  by  the  strongly 
curved  nose,  while  the  cap  projects  on  the  forehead  z 
shadow  which  is  lightened  by  reflected  light.  The  hair, 
which  later  in  life  fell  in  light  gold  waves  on  the  shoulders, 
is  here  cropped  short,  and  a  touch  of  languor,  caused  by 
fever,  lies  on  the  large  bright  eyes,  and  on  the  features, 
which  are  more  intellectual  than  those  of  his  brother.  Al- 
though he  seems  physically  more  delicate  than  the  king,  he 
still  betrays  more  of  the  stuff  of  a  ruler  In  his  resolute,  in- 
telligent expression. 

The  rest  of  the  figure  bears  the  stamp  of  a  later  period. 
Thus,  the  golilla^  or  horizontal  collar,  has  supplanted  the 
wide  pointed  valona^  which  had  been  covered  over.  The 
landscape  in  a  cool  light  blue-grey  tone,  is  treated  with 
great  breadth  and  freedom,  but  the  effect  is  such  that  we 
fancy  wc  can   breathe  the  very  atmosphere  of  yonder  hills. 


336  THE  CARDINAL-PRINCE  FERDINAND 

The  thick  application  of  colours  with  abundant  mixture  of 
white  was  probably  employed  in  order  judiciously  to  con- 
ceal older  pigments. 

The  question  suggests  itself  whether  the  two  other  por- 
traits may  not  also  have  assumed  their  present  condition  at 
some  time  posterior  to  1635.  In  that  of  the  king  there  arc 
not  lacking  traces  of  repainting  and  revision.  The  left  leg 
had  originally  been  brought  more  forward;  the  fowling- 
piece  was  longer ;  the  trunk-hose  fuller.  Under  the  left 
hand  planted  on  the  hip  there  peeps  out  what  looks  like  a 
large  hunting-bag.  Lastly,  the  picture  of  the  young  prince, 
compared  with  the  equestrian  portrait  of  nearly  the  same 
age,  is  considerably  more  free  and  solid,  like  a  rapid  recast 
executed  more  from  pure  fancy  than  after  Nature. 

Both  figui-es  and  surroundings  look  as  if  they  had  been 
brought  more  in  harmony  with  the  repainted  portrait  of 
Ferdinand.  All  stand  under  an  oak  tree,  the  weather  is 
fine,  and  the  dogs  are  in  attitudes  of  rest,  awaiting  the  shot. 
Ferdinand's  is  a  powerful  cinnamon-coloured  animal  of 
that  formidable  breed  which  is  the  terror  of  tramps  and 
loafers  about  the  Andalusian  farmsteads.  The  king  has  a 
magnificent  mastiff,  and  the  prince  an  Italian  greyhound 
and  a  beautiful  setter  stretched  out  for  a  sleep.  Judging 
from  these  specimens  it  would  be  difllicult  to  name  a 
painter  with  a  more  thorough  knowledge  and  observation 
of  sporting  dogs. 

All  the  costumes  are  also  the  same,  cvem  to  sligkt  dettils 
— hunting-caps  showing  one  ear  pressed  back  or  turned 
up  ;  vest  of  dark  figured  silk  under  a  leather  jerkin  or  Short 


THE  CARDINAL-PRINCE  FERDINAND  337 

cloak  with  false  sleeves,  long  leather  gloves,  white  knee- 
breeches,  military  boots.  The  prince  rests  his  little  gun 
jauntily  on  the  sward  ;  the  king's  long  heavy  piece  is  held 
under  the  left  arm  hanging  bv  his  side;  Ferdinand  holds 
his  in  both  hands  ready  to  take  aim. 

The  scene  lies  amid  the  hills,  perhaps  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  Escorial,  the  sierra  showing  in  the  distance. 
The  view  is  most  open  in  Don  Balthasar's  picture,  where 
we  see  in  the  middle  distance  a  hill  with  a  castle  and  thin 
undergrowth  of  oak,  beyond  it  a  stretch  of  level  ground 
with  a  little  tower  close  to  the  foot  of  the  range.  Every- 
where harmony  between  figure  and  environment,  in  the 
distribution  of  forms  and  high  lights.  The  glimpses  of  sun- 
shine flashing  in  the  clouds  and  piercing  through  the 
foliage  stand  in  nicely  calculated  relation  to  the  high  lights 
on  the  faces,  and  the  white  spots  and  bright  patches  on  the 
trusty  companions  at  the  feet  of  the  sportsmen. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN 

{Raphael) 

^  F.  A.  GRUYER 

AT  the  beginning  of  1508,  the  Dei  having  ordered  an 
altarpiece  from  Raphael  for  their  chapel  in  the  church 
of  San  Spirito,  he  began  the  Madonna  of  the  Baldaquin  ; 
but,  being  called  suddenly  to  Rome,  he  could  not  finish  this 
picture,  which  has  remained  in  the  sketch  stage. 

The  Virgin,  holding  her  Son  in  her  arms,  appears  on  a 
throne  surmounted  by  a  conical  baldaquin  suspended  from 
the  vault  of  a  sanctuary  in  which  are  visible  the  composite 
columns,  the  pilasters  and  the  entablature.  To  this  baldaquin 
are  attached  curtains  enveloping  the  throne,  which  is  of  an- 
tique form,  and  to  which  three  high  marble  steps  lead  up. 
Two  seraphim,  hovering  in  the  air,  raise  the  curtains  and 
reveal  the  spectacle  that  they  themselves  view  with  happi- 
ness. At  the  foot  of  the  throne,  two  angels,  entirely  nude, 
are  holding  a  banderole,  from  which  they  are  reading  and 
singing  the  mysteries  of  God.  To  the  left,  stand  St. 
Augustine  and  St.  James  the  Greater ;  to  the  right,  St. 
Peter  and  St.  Bruno.  What  distinguishes  this  picture  from 
those  that  preceded  it,  is  the  independence  shown  in  the 
grouping  of  the  figures.  Not  that  the  ancient  symmetry 
is  abandoned  or  broken ;  it  could  never  be  more  rigorously 
observed.     The  Madonna  and   Infant  are   still   a  sort  of 


Tin;     MAl'ONNA    <>l      IIIK     1IAI.I)A(J|   IN. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN  339 

mathematical  centre  whence  start  equal  and  similarly  placed 
rays  leading  to  the  seraphim,  the  angels  and  the  saints  that 
correspond  two  and  two.  Only  the  Virgin,  without  losing 
any  of  her  dignity,  assumes  a  more  human  grace,  and  with- 
out becoming  worldly  tries  to  mingle  more  with  the  world. 
The  Infant,  even  more  than  in  the  past,  proceeds  from  Na- 
ture ;  but  there  is  more  discernment  and  taste  in  the  choice 
of  the  forms  with  which  he  is  clothed,  and  approaching 
closer  to  reality  he  thereby  borrows  the  means  of  more 
deeply  charming  us  without  being  less  convincing.  With 
less  grandeur,  the  angels  possess  an  analogous  attraction. 
The  seraphim,  abandoning  the  traditional  poses  consecrated 
by  Perugino,  descend  from  Heaven  with  a  rush  that  would 
have  terrified  the  old  masters.  In  the  fulness  of  their  ac- 
tion and  freedom,  instead  of  being  placed  one  above  another 
and  hiding  each  other  from  the  sight  of  the  spectator,  as 
we  see  them  still  in  the  Madonna  of  the  Convent  of  St. 
Anthony,  the  saints  are  placed  in  accordance  with  the  laws 
of  a  learned  perspective  and  bound  together  by  ties  of  com- 
position that  nothing  could  ever  break.  The  general  as- 
pect is  more  familiar  without  being  less  solemn;  and  if  the 
religious  idea  is  asserted  with  somewhat  less  authority,  it 
perhaps  reveals  itself  with  more  poetry. 

The  Virgin  is  seated  facing  us,  clothed  with  a  robe 
which  is  open  in  the  front  and  low  on  the  neck,  recalling 
the  robe  of  the  Belle  'Jardiniere.  A  mantle,  thrown  over 
the  left  shoulder,  leaves  the  robe  uncovered  over  the  breast, 
then  falls  over  the  right  knee,  envelops  the  right  leg, 
leaves  the  end  of  the   foot  bare  and  spreads  in  heavy  folds 


340  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN 

over  the  base  of  the  throne.  Mary  passes  her  left  arm 
around  the  body  of  her  Son  and  presses  him  against  her 
breast,  holding  the  arm  of  the  Infant  with  her  right  hand. 
Her  blond  tresses  are  in  charming  taste.  Parted  in  the 
middle  and  held  by  a  band  crowned  by  a  plait  in  the  form 
of  a  diadem,  her  hair  is  cut  short  on  the  temples  and 
spreads  in  light  waves  that  flow  gracefully  along  her  cheeks 
and  neck.  These  arrangements  are  almost  coquettish,  and, 
without  being  anything  but  chaste,  they  mark  a  transition 
between  the  archaism  of  the  fervent  schools  and  the  return 
to  classic  methods.  At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1508, 
Raphael  felt  an  abundant  sap  rising  in  him,  and  he  tried  to 
find  his  way  without  yet  succeeding.  The  primitive  tra- 
ditions did  not  suffice  for  him  ;  he  was  not  willing  to  de- 
prive himself  of  Nature ;  and  he  called  upon  his  imagina- 
tion for  new  combinations.  He  has  a  presentiment  of 
vaster  horizons  ;  he  is  impatient  to  see  them  ;  and,  while 
waiting  until  he  may  contemplate  them,  he  dreams  about 
them.  If  I  may  say  so,  this  is  the  romantic  period  of  his 
life.  But  even  then,  Raphael  never  departs  from  the  truth, 
or  from  right,  and  while  yielding  to  the  caprice  of  a  mo- 
ment, he  does  not  cease  to  borrow  his  inspiration  from  the 
Christian  dogma.  It  is  thus  that  here  we  see  the  Virgin's 
face  preserving  that  calm,  that  freshness  and  that  bloom 
that  no  external  or  terrestrial  cause  could  affect.  The  features 
are  pure  and  the  expression  is  perfectly  kind ;  the  brows 
and  nose  are  exquisitely  proportioned ;  the  eyes  humbly 
lowered  upon  the  Redeemer,  shine  with  unmixed  happi- 
ness ;    the  lips,  that  are  loving   without   having  anything 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN      34 1 

sensual  in  them,  express  the  same  happiness  mingled  with 
an  infinite  gentleness.  This  last  Florentine  Virgin  has  not 
the  imposing  grandeur  that  the  Roman  Virgins  are  soon  to 
assume  :  she  is  more  human,  less  plastic,  more  personal 
and  yet  there  is  nothing  too  individual  in  her.  She  is 
happy,  but  without  earthly  emotion,  or  worldly  exaltation. 
No  sadness,  no  trouble,  no  presentiment  of  any  kind  has 
left  the  slightest  trace  upon  her.  The  Mater  speciosa^ 
whose  youth  has  not  withered  in  the  least,  has  conquered 
perfect  tranquillity,  and  found  for  all  Eternity  the  Divine 
Son  with  whom  she  has  sacrificed  herself  for  the  salvation 
of  the  world.  That  is  the  religious  idea  contained  in  this 
image. 

The  Infant  Jesus  also  shows  Himself  under  externals 
of  natural  and  living  verity  ;  nevertheless  He  rises  to  the 
ideal,  and  if  He  does  not  impose  Himself  as  God,  He 
makes  Himself  so  loved  as  a  child  that  by  that  love  alone 
He  still  leads  to  God.  Sitting  on  the  left  knee  of  His 
Mother,  He  abandons  Himself  to  the  charm  of  life.  He 
looks  pleasantly  at  the  saints,  smiles  on  them,  and  gives 
Himself  familiarly  to  them.  His  hair  is  blond  and  thin  ; 
eyes  brilliant;  and  mouth  amiable  in  expression.  With- 
out doubt  the  face  is  too  lively,  too  full  of  spirit;  more 
calm  would  have  been  preferable.  It  is  the  fact  seized 
direct  from  Nature  and  rendered  by  a  superior  artist  who 
has  not  vet  taken  the  time  to  gather  and  fix  his  ideas.  Let 
us  not  forget  that  here  wc  have  only  a  sketch  ;  that 
Raphael  would  certainly  have  added  something  to  this  In- 
fant ;  and   that    nowhere    in    this   picture   has   he    put   the 


342     THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN 

finishing  touch.  The  body  of  this  Bambino  is  none  the 
less  admirably  drawn.  On  examining  this  picture  we  are 
especially  reminded  of  the  Infant  of  the  Niccolini  Madonna. 
We  recognize  the  same  principles,  the  same  way  of  look- 
ing at  things,  the  same  alliances,  the  same  mingling  of 
picturesque  beauty  with  religious  ideas.  We  also  find,  as 
in  almost  all  Raphael's  Madonnas^  the  same  characteristic 
resemblance  between  the  mother  and  child.  As  yet  it  is 
only  a  sketch ;  but  beneath  the  individual  vivacity  of  the 
natural  sentiments,  we  already  perceive  an  entirely  im- 
personal impression.  This  Bambino  is  not  yet  the  Son  of 
God ;  he  would  have  become  so  without  doubt  if  Raphael, 
now  being  sure  of  the  form,  had  had  time  to  free  his  idea 
from  the  trammels  of  the  living  model. 

The  two  seraphim  who  are  raising  the  curtain  of  the 
baldaquin  are  two  similar  figures  opposed  to  one  another, 
completing  without  repeating  each  other,  without  monot- 
ony creating  the  idea  of  a  higher  order  and  harmony. 
They  swoop  down  at  full  speed  and  unite  in  drawing  aside 
with  a  gesture  full  of  grace  and  authority  the  curtains  that 
conceal  the  heavenly  vision  from  profane  view.  The  one 
on  the  left  appears  in  profile,  and  is  looking  at  the  Virgin  : 
with  his  left  hand  raised  above  his  head,  he  raises  the  upper 
part  of  the  curtain,  while  with  his  right  hand  he  holds  up 
one  of  its  lower  folds.  The  one  on  the  right  is  placed  in 
the  same  way,  only  his  head  is  turned  to  the  right,  almost 
full  face,  and  he  fixes  his  eyes  upon  St.  James  and  St. 
Augustine.  In  these  celestial  messengers,  we  see  the  re- 
flection of  that  love  that  first  descended  and  spread  its 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN      343 

wings  before  the  Virgin,  singing :  "  Jve  Maria  gratia 
plena."  Their  hair,  ruffled  by  a  rapid  flight,  stands  up 
like  flames  on  their  inspired  brows ;  their  features  are  pure, 
stamped  with  eternal  youth,  and  seem  to  be  impregnated 
with  divinity  ;  their  bare  feet  elegantly  protrude  below  long 
and  floating  tunics;  great  wings  of  a  thousand  hues  crown 
and  frame  these  admirable  creatures  that  are  sexless  and 
have  ever  been  unsullied.  What  a  beautiful  flow  of  drap- 
ery !  With  what  art  Raphael  makes  us  feel  with  one 
stroke  that  these  aerial  beings  have  no  weight,  and  that, 
while  they  possess  bodies  similar  to  our  own,  they  are  noth- 
ing but  pure  spirits,  independent  of  all  laws  of  matter  and 
gravity  !  We  are  already  far  from  the  analogous  figures, 
evoked  every  moment  in  the  school  of  Perousa  and  hitherto 
still  reproduced  by  Raphael  himself!  Instead  of  the  timid 
and  almost  undecided  pose  that  they  aff^ected  five  years  be- 
fore in  the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin^  see  with  what  enthu- 
siasm and  irresistible  ease  here  they  accomplish  their  voca- 
tion, and  how,  in  this  supernatural  function.  Nature,  closely 
held  and  faithfully  observed,  always  remains  the  supreme 
guide  !  The  more  Raphael  wants  to  rise  above  reality,  the 
more  necessary  he  feels  it  is  to  lean  upon  it  and  to  gain 
from  that  support  the  indispensable  force  for  proceeding 
further. 

The  two  angels  who,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  Ma- 
donna's throne,  occupy  the  centre  of  the  foreground,  also 
belong  to  the  ideal,  and  arc  still  more  directly  related  to 
natural  and  living  facts.  They  are  only  two  beautiful 
nude  children,  furnished  with  two  little  wings.     One  faces 


344     THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN 

US  full,  and  is  modelled  in  high  light;  the  other,  three- 
quarters  right,  leaning  on  his  companion's  shoulder,  offers 
sharper  modulations,  and  more  accented  and  violent  opposi- 
tions of  light  and  shade.  In  the  state  in  which  the  sketch 
presents  them,  I  much  prefer  the  first.  His  position  has 
the  greater  ease  and  nobility,  and  his  features  are  more  ex- 
pressive from  the  religious  point  of  view.  The  little  head 
also  is  charming,  and  his  features  are  entirely  devoted 
to  praise  and  adoration.  Raphael  alone  knew  how  to 
paint  children  thus,  and  to  evoke  the  enchanted  dreams  of 
the  celestial  world  from  the  simple  truth. 

Among  the  saints  gathered  together  at  the  foot  of  the 
Virgin's  throne,  St.  Peter  and  St.  James  the  Greater  were 
the  contemporaries  and  friends  of  Jesus.  St.  Augustine 
belongs  to  the  Fourth  Century,  and  consecrates  to  the 
Mother  of  the  Word  all  that  is  highest  in  the  science  of 
theology.  Finally,  St.  Bruno,  the  founder  of  the  Carthu- 
sians, also  offers  to  the  Virgin  the  noble  aspirations  that 
appealed  to  the  world  after  the  foolish  terrors  of  the  year 
1000.  Animated  with  the  same  spirit,  they  mutually  pay 
honour  to  the  Virgin  in  the  sight  of  Jesus  Christ.  The 
God  that  is  offered  to  their  eyes  sheds  upon  them  rays  of 
different  degrees  and  characters. 

St.  Augustine,  who  comes  first  on  the  left,  holds  a  book 
in  his  right  hand,  and  with  his  left  hand  he  points  out  the 
Virgin  and  Child  to  the  spectator,  whom  he  looks  at  with 
authority. 

This  figure  is  eminently  picturesque  and  the  way  in 
which  the   head   is   dressed    is   inimitable.      The   bishop's 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN  345 

body,  although  clothed  in  Episcopal  robes,  is  draped  with 
remarkable  independence.  The  dominating  character  of 
St.  Augustine's  figure  is  placed  in  perfect  light  in  Raphael's 
picture.  The  features  of  the  saintly  bishop  are  lively  and 
full  of  that  reflective  intelligence  that  gains  and  makes  fol- 
lowers of  men.  His  heart,  all  on  tire,  seeks  to  touch  even 
as  it  has  been  touched.  In  him,  pride  has  been  trans- 
formed into  humility,  and  it  is  even  humility  that  he 
preaches  and  that  he  points  out  in  the  Virgin. 

St.  James  the  Greater  is  beside  St.  Augustine.  This 
apostle  who  has  been  so  keenly  adopted  by  popular  imagi- 
nation is  here  represented  very  simply.  His  head  is  bare, 
and  seen  three-quarters  right  ;  his  features  are  strong  and 
even  a  little  rugged,  but  not  without  gentleness,  sharpened 
by  fatigue,  still  crowned  with  black  hair,  and  framed  in  a 
beard  already  white.  Clothed  in  a  long  tunic  that  leaves 
only  his  feet  bare,  and  in  a  mantle  that  leaves  almost  the 
entire  tunic  visible,  he  holds  a  long  walking-stafF  in  his 
hands.  We  think  of  his  fabulous  perigrinations,  and  re- 
member that  Spain,  proud  of  dating  from  the  earliest 
Christian  antiquity,  has  adopted  as  her  apostle  the  son  of 
Zebedee,  the  brother  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  that 
James  whom  Jesus  associated  with  himself  in  the  splen- 
dours of  Tabor  and  the  agony  in  the  Garden  of  Olives. 

On  the  opposite  side,  St.  Peter  occupies  the  foreground. 
Like  St.  James,  he  is  clothed  in  a  long  tunic  and  a  mantle 
that  falls  from  his  right  shoulder  and  envelops  (Jiily  the 
lower  part  of  his  figure.  In  his  right  hand,  held  against 
his  breast,  he  clasps  the  keys  of  Paradise  ;  and  in  his  left, 


346  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  BALDAQUIN 

hanging  alongside  his  body,  he  holds  a  closed  book.  He  is 
conversing  with  St.  Bruno,  and  his  head  turned  towards 
him  shows  only  a  lost  profile.  Abundant  white  hair  covers 
his  cranium,  and  a  beard,  also  white,  hides  the  lower  part 
of  his  face.  His  eye  is  bright  and  ardent ;  his  lips  speak 
with  animation. 

Finally  St.  Bruno  appears  by  the  side  of  St.  Peter.  Com- 
pletely enveloped  in  his  white  Carthusian  robe,  he  holds  an 
open  book  in  his  right  hand,  and  lifts  his  left  towards  the 
apostle  with  whom  he  confounds  his  love  for  Jesus  and  his 
admiration  for  Mary.  His  body,  turned  towards  the 
Virgin,  is  three-quarters  full  to  the  left  and  his  head  is 
three-quarters  to  the  right.  His  features,  framed  in  the 
white  hood  of  his  robe,  are  open  to  the  divine  and  radiant 
intelligence  of  the  light.  We  may  apply  to  him  St.  Paul's 
words :  "  The  world  hath  been  crucified  unto  me  and  I 
unto  the  world ;  "  but  while  sacrificing  his  body,  the  aus- 
terities have  beautified  his  face  with  that  resplendence  that 
is  beauty  itself.  In  the  conversation  that  he  is  holding 
with  St.  Peter,  he  seems  to  be  transported  with  a  celestial 
ardour.  He  speaks  like  a  man  who  has  come  from  Heaven 
and  is  jealous  for  the  honour  of  Jesus. 

As  the  Madonna  of  the  Baldaquin  was  not  completed,  it 
did  not  reach  its  destination.  After  Raphael's  death, 
Baldassare  Turini  bought  this  picture  and  gave  it  to  the 
church  of  Pescia  where  it  remained  till  1697.  Then 
Prince  Ferdinand,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Grand  Duke 
Cosmo  HI.,  acquired  it  from  the  Bonvicini  family,  who,  on 
becoming  proprietors  of  the  chapel,  had  at  the  same  time 


THE  MADONNA  OF   THE  BALDAQUIN  347 

taken  possession  of  the  picture.  Now  the  Pescians  were 
greatly  attached  to  this  treasure.  Getting  wind  of  the 
affair,  they  raised  a  riot  and  became  threatening.  It  was 
necessary  to  employ  ruse,  to  carry  off  the  picture  by  might, 
and  to  flee  as  if  with  the  proceeds  of  a  robbery.  The 
dispossessed  Pescians  could  then  do  nothing  but  protest, 
and  that  they  did  in  terms  whose  very  violence  does  them 
honour.  The  Madonna  of  the  Baldaquin  then  entered  the 
Pitti  Palace.  To  adapt  it  to  the  place  intended  for  it,  it 
was  enlarged  by  some  centimetres  on  either  side,  and  it  was 
moreover  restored  by  the  painter  Giovanni  Agostino  Cas- 
sana.  Thence  arises  the  error,  widely  credited,  that  Cas- 
sana  finished  this  picture,  left  by  Raphael  in  a  state  of 
sketch. 


■it>\>   t-i'vAr 


SAINT  HELENA 

{Veronese) 

1  I 
J.  BUISSON 


AMONG  the  great  masters  of  Italy,  and  even  those  of 
Venice,  Paul  Veronese  is  the  one  whose  work  best 
serves  to  particularize  the  art  of  painting,  not  solely  in  the 
various  methods  of  expressing  the  human  figure,  but  in  the 
special  domain  of  the  Beaux-Arts.  His  triumph  is  the  real 
triumph  of  the  painter. 

When  we  study  his  paintings,  it  is  necessary  to  bear  in 
mind  the  frequently  quoted  letter  that  he  wrote  to  Gen- 
naro  Lauretti  regarding  the  Marriage  in  Cana :  "  In  ex- 
ecuting this  great  picture,  I  have  endeavoured  far  less  to 
render  a  Biblical  scene  than  a  great  Venetian  feast.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  to  paint  the  costumes  of  my  own  time 
would  be  performing  not  only  an  artistic,  but  above  all  an 
historical  wofk.  And,  in  order  that  it  might  be  easier  for 
me  to  make  it  accurate  and  true,  I  have  represented  my 
best  friends,  those  whose  features  and  manners  were  the 
most  familiar  to  me." 

These  lines  furnish  us  with  the  key  for  a  thorough  com- 
prehension of  his  work ;  he  did  nothing  but  this  all  his  life 
long,  in  connection  with  his  antique,  religious  and  alle- 
gorical subjects ;  he  simply  made  History,  observing  it 
from  a  height,  and  depicting  day  by  day,  without  fatigue. 


HAISI      III. I, ISA. 


SAINT    HELENA  349 

Without  faltering,  and  with  a  full  command  of  himself,  the 
life  of  the  incomparable  Venice  of  the  Seventeenth  Century, 
in  subjects  that  were  antique,  religious,  or  allegorical.  In 
reality,  he  has  painted  the  visible  Venetian  Beautiful  that 
he  saw,  just  as  the  Greeks  sculptured  the  Hellenic  Beauti- 
ful, for  the  eternal  feast  of  the  eyes. 

All  the  great  writers  of  the  first  order  have  mingled  in 
their  poetical  or  philosophical  fictions  the  impressions,  men, 
characters,  ways,  customs,  and  the  intellectual  atmosphere 
of  their  own  time  with  the  things  of  the  Past.  Is  it  neces- 
sary to  recall  the  example  of  Dante  ?  That  is  the  secret 
of  the  strong  power  of  superior  minds  over  their  contem- 
poraries, the  secret  of  the  intensity  of  life  that  makes  their 
works  immortal.  Veronese  has  employed  this  melange  of 
periods  even  more  widely  than  the  men  of  letters,  with  the 
deliberate  purpose  which  is  characteristic  of  his  genius,  his 
art  lending  itself  more  favourably  to  this.  He  knew  in- 
tuitively that  painting  with  its  own  powers,  exalted  to  a 
superlative  degree,  was  sufficient  for  itself  and  that,  to  a 
certain  extent,  the  rest  was  a  matter  of  superaddition. 

Would  the  other  great  Italian  schools  of  Umbria,  Rome, 
Florence,  Milan  and  even  Venice  and  those  masters  who 
were  his  precursors,  and  several  of  his  contemporaries,  who 
had  made  so  many  discoveries  in  the  expression  and  the 
moral  presentment  of  man  by  means  of  painting,  have  un- 
reservedly accepted  the  thesis  of  Gennaro  Lauretti's  corre- 
spondent ?  VVe  doubt  it.  This  implies  so  bold  and  so 
novel  a  view  of  the  distinction,  of  the  respective  domains 
of  reason,    faith,   history,   and   the   arts   of  design.      The 


350  SAINT   HELENA 

admiration  of  the  world  and  modern  analytical  criticism 
have  pronounced  Paul  Veronese  right. 

There  are  two  kind  of  geniuses  :  those  with  whom  pro- 
duction is  a  painful  labour,  an  effort,  a  fever,  and  a  natural 
or  provoked  excitement ;  and  those,  on  the  other  hand 
with  whom  it  is  nothing  but  a  simple  and  joyful  exercise 
of  their  natural  strength,  the  flowing  of  a  prodigious  spring 
which  in  their  maturity  gains  the  force  of  a  fever.  Paul 
Veronese  is  the  type  of  the  latter.  Engaged  in  his  profes- 
sion from  his  birth,  as  was  common  during  the  Renaissance, 
you  cannot  find  one  trace  of  serious  hesitation  in  his  man- 
ner regarding  the  path  he  should  follow ;  and  he  never  lost 
a  single  moment  of  his  life. 

What  are  the  intrinsic  and  technical  merits  of  this  Vene- 
tian master  that  justify  his  success  and  renown  ?  They 
have  been  noted  in  every  period  by  the  historians  of  paint- 
ing :  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  recapitulate  them.  The  first, 
which  contains  the  germ  of  everything,  is  the  perfection  of 
the  ensemble.  Paul  Veronese  is  of  all  the  colourists,  with- 
out a  single  exception,  the  one  who  has  most  unity.  No 
one  ever  rendered  before  him  or  after  him  the  synthetic 
impression  of  the  human  eye  before  scenes  of  nature  with 
such  certainty.  Also,  among  the  great  men  of  the  palette, 
there  is  not  one  from  whom  it  is  so  hard  to  extract  bits. 
To  select  a  detail  from  one  of  his  canvasses  is  like 
mutilating  or  amputating  the  member  of  an  organic 
body. 

If  he  has  the  most  unity,  he  is  also  the  simplest,  the 
most  truthful,  the  most  accessible,  and  above  all  the  most 


SAINT    HELENA  35 1 

ethereal  of  the  colourists.  He  is  the  painter  of  the  air, 
both  out-of-doors  and  in-doors.  His  values  are  impeccable 
and  his  shadows  are  at  once  transparent  and  full  of  colour, 
without  any  artifice,  such  as  Rubens's  exaggerated  reflec- 
tions, or  the  excessive  sacrifices  which  in  Rembrandt  are 
almost  equivalent  to  a  monotone  in  those  parts  that  are 
lacking  in  light.  His  lights  are  broad  and  steady  although 
modelled  without  any  gleams,  but  of  so  shining  a  quality 
that  thev  are  positively  radiant.  Happy  artist !  He 
had  the  eye  of  the  most  perfect  colourist  that  Nature 
predestined  to  perceive  at  the  same  time  the  diff'erent  qual- 
ities of  light  and  colour,  and  their  variations  in  intensity 
and  values,  and  to  reveal  them  with  a  marvellous  art  to  or- 
dinary mortals.  We  may  boldly  affirm  that  optics  applied 
to  his  pictures  show  us  no  law  that  he  did  not  know  and 
practise.  Veronese  is  great  above  all  in  this.  Around  this 
substantial  and  central  kernel,  his  perfect  visions  in  colour 
can  be  determined  ;  his  spheres  or  qualities  of  imagination, 
rhythm,  taste,  elegance,  nobility  and  magnificence  in  deco- 
ration, are  nothing  but  complimentary  forces  attracted  into 
his  orbit  by  one  superior  principal  and  characteristic 
force. 

His  hand,  moreover,  is  the  equal  of  his  eye  ;  the  rapidity 
of  his  brush  may  be  compared  only  to  that  of  Velasquez 
and  Rubens. 

In  characterizing  Voltaire's  style,  Sainte-Bcuve  wrote  : 
"  He  draws  at  pleasure  from  the  stream  of  thought  without 
the  aid  of  images;  Veronese  drew  at  pleasure  from  the 
stream  of  painting  without  the  aid  of  the  convenances  of  the 


352  SAINT   HELENA 

subject.  A  kind  of  artistic  and  communicative  peace, 
superior  to  all  accidents  and  contingencies  of  History,  reigns 
throughout  his  work." 

It  is  especially  in  those  great  portraits  of  numerous  per- 
sonages that  he  exhibits  all  his  genius ;  there  are  to  be 
found  the  most  striking  exhibitions  of  his  animated  fancy, 
his  technical  skill,  and  his  inspiration. 

The  Saint  Helena  in  the  National  Gallery  of  London 
cannot  therefore  enter  into  comparison  with  the  vast  and 
splendid  compositions  of  the  master;  but  it  bears  the 
stamp  of  his  genius,  his  distinctive  and  chief  mark,  his 
atmosphere. 

Veronese  could  easily  have  gathered  all  the  historical 
and  emblematical  information  from  the  lives  of  the  saints 
that  were  widely  distributed  in  Italy  j  but  we  have  noted 
that  this  mattered  little  to  him.  Saint  Helena  having  been 
born  in  the  British  Isles,  at  York  or  Colchester,  of  a  King 
or  Breton  Chief,  named  Coelius  (Koel),  we  might  believe 
that  this  picture  was  ordered  from  the  artist  by  some  Eng- 
lish lord  to  glorify  himself  by  means  of  a  distant  relation- 
ship with  the  mother  of  Constantine,  but  its  history  is  less 
legendary.  It  adorned  the  altar  of  Saint  Helena  in  a 
church  in  Venice;  after  having  passed  through  various 
celebrated  collections,  it  was  acquired  from  Lord  Percy 
Ashburnham,  for  the  National  Gallery  in  1878. 

Veronese's  Saint  Helena  is  a  young  Venetian  lady  whose 
type  is  well  known  to  us,  leaning  on  her  elbow  asleep  at 
her  window,  and  in  an  attitude  that  is  far  more  familiar 
than  mystical.     How  will  this  gentle  and  modest  creature 


SAINT   HELENA  353 

transform  herself  into  the  woman,  the  mother  of  the  Roman 
Emperor,  the  wife  of  Constantine  Clovis,  the  mother  of 
Constantine  ?  How  will  she  become  that  saint  predes- 
tined to  accomplish  a  great  design  of  Providence  and 
towards  the  end  of  her  life  to  discover  in  Jerusalem  among 
the  rubbish  of  Golgotha  the  True  Cross  upon  which 
Jesus  Christ  died  ?  Two  cherubs  appear  in  the  sky  bear- 
ing the  sacred  wood  ;  the  sleep  of  the  young  woman  is  a 
prophetic  sleep  which  determines  the  life,  the  roU^  the  re- 
ligious and  historical  importance,  the  human  and  divine 
glory  of  Saint  Helena. 

Let  us  return  to  the  picture  :  the  head  of  the  saint  is 
resting  gracefully  upon  her  right  hand ;  her  profile  is  deli- 
cious ;  and  from  her  parted  lips  escapes  the  soft  breath  of 
slumber.  Her  expression  is  of  the  greatest  purity.  All  the 
charm  of  the  woman  is  revealed  in  the  curve  of  her  neck, 
her  ear  and  in  her  rich  hair,  a  tress  of  which  is  falling  upon 
her  shoulder.  The  harmony  of  the  lines  and  the  harmony 
of  the  colours  are  one;  the  careless  attitude  delights  us ; 
and  the  work,  wrought  according  to  the  relative  importance 
of  each  of  its  parts,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  eye  is  complete. 
But,  is  there  nothing  here  but  what  gives  pleasure  to  the 
eyes  ?  Around  this  window,  opening  upon  the  heavens, 
a  soul  is  fluttering  ;  life,  human  life,  tethered  to  the  earth 
and  yet  winged,  clearly  manifests  itself.  An  impression  of 
silence,  of  peace  and  ideality,  rests  upon  the  mind,  without 
revealing  that  the  artist  sought  for  anything  more  than  the 
satisfaction  of  his  art.  As  we  indicated  in  the  beginning, 
these   kinds   of  effect  arc  the  excesses  of  painting;  a  fatal 


354  SAINT    HELENA 

excess,  for  in  reproducing  objects,  the  artist  does  nothing 
more  than  make  use  of  the  faculty  they  possess  in  awaken- 
ing moral  ideas  in  ourselves.  He  reveals  to  the  generality 
of  mankind  the  symbolic  reality  of  forms  and  figures. 


>>-^N 


r 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  SHEPHERDS 

{Ribera) 

TOUSSAINT  BERNARD  EM6RIC-DAVID 

JOSEPH  DE  RIBERA  called  "  Spagnoletto  "  (the  little 
Spaniard),  was  born  at  Xativa  (now  San  Felipe  in 
V^alencia)  in  1588.  His  father  took  him  at  an  early  age  to 
Gallipoli  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  where  he  was  employed  as 
a  soldier  in  the  service  of  the  King  of  Naples.  After  having 
learned  the  first  principles  of  his  art  under  Ribalta,  young 
Ribera  was  placed  in  Caravaggio's  studio  in  Naples.  The 
lessons  that  he  received  from  this  master  must  have  been 
of  short  duration,'  but  he  resembled  him  so  greatlv  in  his 
moral  qualities  that  he  soon  acquired  his  manner.  He 
then  attempted  to  imitate  the  works  of  Raphael  in  Rome 
and  those  of  Correggio  in  Parma  and  Alodena.  This 
elevated  style  suited  him  little  ;  the  prevailing  taste  of  the 
day,  moreover,  presented  an  obstacle  in  that  line  that  was 
difficult  for  him  to  overcome.  As  long  as  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  study  of  these  immortal  geniuses,  he  lived  in 
profound  misery.  His  friends  advised  him  to  return  to 
Naples  and  to  apply  himself  afresh  to  Caravaggio's  style. 
This  apostasy  totally  changed  his  fate.  His  works  were 
sought  with   avidity,  and   his  Spanish  quality  made  him  so 

'  Ril)era  should  be  placed  close  to  Car.-iva(jK'<^  in  1606,  at  the  ])triod 
when  that  celebrated  painter,  forced  to  leave  Rome,  sou(;ht  a  refuge  in 
Naples.     Caravajji.'io  left  for  Malta  a  short  whilf  afterwards. 


356  THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  SHEPHERDS 

valued  by  the  viceroy  that  in  a  short  time  he  enjoyed  great 
wealth.^ 

'  As  soon  as  Ribera  experienced  this  change  of  fortune,  his  proud 
character,  restrained  so  long,  knew  no  bounds.  The  desire  to  support 
immoderate  display  resulted  in  corrupting  him.  History  accuses  this 
ambitious  man  of  having  plotted  with  Belizario  Corenzio.  Greek  of 
origin  were  these  conspiracies  that  shortened  the  days  of  the  virtuous 
Domenichino.  Ribera  found  a  well  merited  punishment  in  the  conse- 
quences of  his  pride.  He  was  sufficiently  vain  to  invite  the  famous  Don 
Juan  of  Austria,  son  of  Philip  IV.,  to  a  ball.  This  prince  fell  in  love  with 
one  of  his  daughters,  seduced  her  and  ran  away  with  her.  Ribera,  dis- 
honoured by  an  affront,  upon  which  it  was  impossible  to  revenge  him- 
self, gave  himself  up  to  despair  :  one  day  he  deceived  his  family  by  pre- 
tending that  he  was  going  to  his  country  house,  and  disappeared  forever, 
exiling  himself  voluntarily,  or,  what  is  more  probable,  he  threw  himself 
into  the  sea. 

This  last  fact  occasions  a  very  important  remark.  This  picture  that  we 
are  describing  bears  the  following  inscription :  Jusepe  Ribera,  Espagnol 
Academico  roviano,  f.  1650.  Dominici,  in  relating  the  circumstances  of 
Ribera's  death,  will  have  it  that  Don  Juan  ran  away  with  his  daughter  in 
1648,  and  places  his  death  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1649.  If  Ribera 
died  in  1649,  i'  follows  that  the  picture  in  the  Louvre  is  not  from  his 
hand,  or,  at  least,  that  the  signature  is  a  counterfeit.  But  Dominici 
seems  to  have  been  mistaken  about  his  dates.  Don  Juan  went  to  Naples 
twice.  He  went  there  first  when  the  city  was  surrendering  to  the 
Spanish  army,  April  6,  1648.  He  embarked  to  Messina,  to  quiet  the 
troubles  in  Sicily,  September  22,  of  the  same  year.  In  the  month  of  May, 
1650,  he  came  with  a  portion  of  his  flotilla  to  gain  the  Spanish 
viceroy,  who  was  about  to  descend  into  Tuscany,  and  he  returned  to 
Sicily  in  the  following  September.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  he  re- 
mained in  Naples  for  some  time  upon  this  last  occasion,  and  it  was  then 
that  he  ran  away  with  Ribera's  daughter.  In  admitting  that  the  latter 
died  in  the  spring  following  this  event,  his  death  must  be  placed  in  the 
month  of  May,  165 1.  Another  fact  comes  to  support  the  latter  supposi- 
tion :  the  existence  of  a  picture  by  Ribera  representing  The  Last  Supper 
placed  in  the  choir  of  the  church  of  the  Carthusians  in  Naples,  dedicated . 
to  Saint  Mardn.  This  picture  bears  the  inscription :  Joseph  de  Ribera, 
Hispdnus,  Valentinus,  AcademicHs  romnmts,  f.  165 1.  The  touch  of  the 
picture  in  the  Louvre,  moreover,  is  sufficient  to  prove  that  it  is  from 
Ribera's  hand. 


Till.     A  l>i>IC  A  I  l<iv     (II       III)       -III    llll-lir'H. 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  SHEPHERDS  357 

Generally  speaking,  his  pictures  offer  a  faithful  and  lively 
imitation  of  nature.  His  drawing  is  usually  correct ;  his 
colour  is  almost  always  masculine  and  true  ;  his  touch  broad, 
mellow  and  bold.  He  loves  to  treat  tragic  and  sombre 
stories;  this  natural  disposition  should  have  led  him  to  the 
beauty  of  a  superior  order;  but  one  notices  but  little  inven- 
tion and  little  variety  in  his  works.  He  excels  only  when 
he  represents  persons  of  mean  birth :  shepherds,  butchers, 
soldiers  and  anchorites  emaciated  by  years.  Amenity  and 
grace  are  strangers  to  him.  When  he  wishes  to  paint 
women,  his  drawing  becomes  impoverished;  his  colour 
cold  :  one  would  say  that  he  has  ceased  to  consult  nature. 

If  this  observation  is  correct,  the  subject  of  The  Adora- 
tion  of  the  Shepherds  should  reveal  striking  beauties  and 
faults  equally  remarkable  beneath  the  brush  of "  the  little 
Spaniard."  Such,  in  reality,  are  presented  to  us  in  the 
capital  picture  that  we  are  examining.  Nothing  could  be 
more  vigorous  and  true  than  the  faces  of  the  shepherds, 
which,  full  of  respect  and  emotion,  bend  over  Jesus  to  adore 
Him  ;  the  drawing,  the  colouring,  the  touch,  and  the  heads 
and  costumes  have  a  vigour  that  one  can  never  admire  suffi- 
ciently :  the  head  of  Mary  and  that  of  Jesus,  on  the  other 
hand,  lack  dignity,  grace  and  even  relief.  The  most 
brilliant  light,  which  ought  to  illuminate  the  principal  per- 
sonage, strikes  the  shepherd  who  is  furthest  in  the  fore- 
ground. One  is,  however,  forced  to  pardon  these  faults, 
when  one  considers  the  character  of  this  shepherd,  the  relig- 
ious expression  suffusing  his  face,  and  the  warm  colours 
of  his  draperies.     Neither  Caravaggio,  nor  any  one  of  our 


358  THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  SHEPHERDS 

most  skilful  colourists  have  ever  painted  a  more  masculine 
and  astonishing  figure.  ^ 

1  Ribera  painted  the  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds  many  times.  A  replica 
of  our  picture  exists  in  the  Escunal.  We  are  assured  that  there  is 
another  in  Cordova  in  the  sacristy  of  the  Augustine  convent.  M.  Le 
Brun  thinks  that  the  picture  in  the  Escurial  is  a  copy  {^Rec.  de  grav.  au 
trait,  II.,  18).  The  one  in  the  Louvre  belonged  to  the  duke  della  Regifia 
for  a  long  time.  It  was  ceded  to  France  by  the  King  of  Naples,  in  ex- 
change for  some  other  pictures  belonging  to  the  French  which  the  Neapol* 
tans  had  carried  away  from  Rome. 


•Ji>-<LKj>; 


j-Ct^**^ 


THE  DOGE  LOREDANO 

{Giovanni  Bc'Iiini^  i^ 

CHARLES  YRIARTE 


GIOVANNI  BELLINI,  so  celebrated  by  his  Madon- 
nas and  saintly  pictures,  was  in  his  own  day  the 
master  of  poru^iuice  also. 

During  his  long  life,  he  saw  six  successive  Doges,  and 
four  of  these, — Giovanni  Moncenigo,  Marco  Barberigo, 
Agostino  Barberigo  and  Lionardo  Lorendano — sat  to  him 
for  their  portraits.  If  we  consider  that  his  elder  brother, 
Gentile,  a  very  great  painter,  who  perhaps  was  not  gifted 
with  all  the  unction  and  sympathetic  grace  of  Giovanni, 
but  who  was  his  equal  in  strength,  and  surpassed  him  in 
the  flexibility  of  his  talent  and  breadth  of  conception,  also 
painted  Lorenzo  Giustianiani,  the  Comaros,  and  other 
princes  of  the  Serenissime,  we  shall  look  upon  the  two 
Bellinis  as  the  official  painters,  of  the  Doges  of  Venice  dur- 
ing almost  the  whole  of  the  Fiftcciith_Cejitury. 

When  the  Doge  Loredano  posed  before  him,  Giovanni 
had  already  reached  his  eightieth  year.  People  admire  the 
longevity  of  his  talent  in  Titian  ;  in  Bellini,  this  was  still 
greater  if  we  compare  the  nature  of  their  respective  work. 
The  latter,  grave  and  severe,  restrained  in  form  and  yet 
drawn   with   precision  ;   the   former  ever  noble  and   genial, 


360  THE  DOGE  LOREDANO 

but  free  in  expression  as  it  is  broad  in  touch,  living  by  its 
genius  rather  than  its  sharpness  and  penetration. 

We  have  just  spoken  of  the  longevity  of  Bellini's  talent; 
but  we  know  by  the  letters  that  he  wrote  to  Isabella  d' 
Este,  Marchioness  of  Mantua,  who  had  requested  of  him  a 
picture  to  decorate  her  studiolo^  where  she  had  taken  pleas- 
ure in  gathering  together  works  by  Mantegna,  Perugino, 
Lorenzo  Costa  and  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  and  had  even  tried 
to  obtain  the  collaboration  of  the  youthful  Raphael,  that 
Giovanni  excused  himself  for  a  long  time  for  his  tardiness 
in  sending  to  her  his  work  by  alleging  the  necessity  of 
finishing  for  the  Doge  the  portrait  that  he  had  ordered. 
This  occurred  between  1502  and  1506.  About  the  same 
time,  Albert  Diirer  came  to  visit  him  at  Rome  and  had 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  famous  altar  picture  of  San 
Zaccharia;  he  retained  such  a  strong  remembrance  of  it 
that  all  writers  on  art  agree  in  recognizing  that  he  pre- 
served traces  of  the  influence  exercised  upon  him  by  the 
aged  master.  In  15 13,  at  the  age  of  eighty-three,  he  ex- 
ecuted the  great  picture  of  the  high  altar  of  St.  Chrysostom, 
and,  at  the  age.  of  eighty-eight,  in  the  Bacchanal^  painted 
for  the  house  of  Este,  and  the  Camerini  d^ Alahastro  of 
Alphonso  d'Este  and  Lucrezia  Borgia,  he  gave  his  most 
joyous  note  and  his  freest  work,  as  though,  by  a  veritable 
miracle,  at  the  moment  when  the  sap  of  life  was  about  to 
dry  up  within  him,  his  genius  renewed  itself  and  produced 
its  loveliest  blossoms. 

The  first  canvasses  by  Bellini,  who  as  well  as  his  brother 
was  brought  up  in  the  school  of  his  father  Jacopo  Bellini, 


III).      !•<><. I.     I.ol    I    I.AVC 


r..- 


THE  DOGE   LOREDANO  36 1 

in  his  studio  at  Padua,  are  painted  in  tempera.  Following 
the  example  of  Andrea  Mantegna,  who  was  to  become  his 
brother-in-law,  he  employed  that  process,  so  dear  to  the 
early  masters  ;  but  the  art  of  painting  in  oil,  introduced 
into  Germany  by  Van  Eyck,  and  carried  thence  to  Venice 
by  Antonio  of  Messina,  was  already  tempting  the  young 
school.  Giovanni  passionately  abandoned  himself  to  it  ; 
Giorgione  and  Titian,  his  pupils,  were  to  draw  their  richest 
effects  from  the  new  process,  and  the  distemper,  so  tender 
and  clear,  was  abandoned.  To  the  very  end  of  his  career, 
however,  Mantegna  still  used  it,  and  it  dominates  in  his 
work.  A  correspondence  between  the  master  and  Lorenzo 
de  Pavia,  who  also  corresponded  with  the  Marchioness  of 
Mantua  at  Venice,  proves  to  us  that,  in  order  to  heighten 
the  somewhat  faint  brilliance  of  that  colour  of  simple 
medium  and  soft  effects,  Andrea  employed  a  wonderful 
varnish,  the  effect  of  which  is  such  that  after  four  centuries 
have  passed,  it  is  still  hard  for  us  to  believe,  when  we  gaze 
upon  the  Parnassus  of  the  Italian  Gallery  in  the  Louvre,  so 
full  of  relief  and  so  dazzling,  that  that  admirable  canvas 
was  executed  with  this  medium. 

The  personality  of  his  model  was  sufficiently  elevated 
for  an  artist  of  Giovanni's  talent  to  apply  himself  to  the 
task  of  bequeathing  Loredano's  likeness  to  posterity.  No 
Doge  ever  assumed  a  heavier  responsibility,  nor  accom- 
plished a  more  fruitful  task.  The  twenty  years  during 
which  he  wielded  power,  from  1501  to  1521,  without  his 
resolution  and  ability  might  have  become  the  most  fatal  to 
the    republic.      It    was    the    moment    of    great    invasions. 


362  THE  DOGE  LOREDANO 

Charles  VIII.  had  indeed  recrossed  the  Alps  after  the  rude 
shock  at  Fornoul,  where  the  Venetian  troops,  joined  with 
the  Imperial  forces  and  those  of  Milan  and  Florence,  under 
the  leadership  of  Gonzaga,  Marquis  of  Mantua,  uselessly 
disputed  his  passage ;  but  the  French  returned  led  by  Louis 
XII.,  and  Francis  I.  in  his  turn  wanted  to  complete  their 
work  and  conquer  the  Milanais.  Venice,  ever  menaced, 
because  she  had  joined  the  league  even  more  than  because 
her  power  seemed  that  it  ought  rather  to  be  employed  on 
the  sea,  had  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  defence,  and  in  the 
midst  of  incessant  vicissitudes,  he  knew  how  to  maintain 
himself  on  the  level  of  his  task. 

The  likeness  that  Bellini  has  left  us  of  this  great  Doge 
worthily  reflects  the  serenity  of  his  soul  and  the  strength 
of  his  will.  His  aspect  is  dignified,  his  physiognomy  is 
grave,  and  his  mouth  is  firmly  closed  as  if  the  lips  were 
contracted,  indicating  decision.  From  the  point  of  view 
of  the  matter  of  the  painting.  Time,  that  becomes  the 
collaborator  of  men  of  genius,  gives  to  their  works  that 
admirable  tone  that,  so  to  speak,  embalms  and  conse- 
crates them,  has  preserved  intact  the  very  flower  of  this 
painting,  and  we  may  also  say  its  soul.  This  prodigious 
portrait  is  certainly  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  images  that 
remain  to  us. 


ANGELS'  HEADS 

PAUL  MANTZ 

JOSHUA  REYNOLDS,  in  his  anxiety  to  create  for 
himself  a  language  and  to  conquer  a  method  of  execu- 
tion that  the  masters  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  could  not 
teach  him,  had  given  a  great  deal  of  study  to  Rembrandt. 
Thence  comes  that  firmness  of  stroke  thac  we  are  so  will- 
ing to  admire  and  that  solid  layer  of  pigment  that  seem  to  be 
so  easy  that  we  may  regard  him  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
virtuosi  of  the  English  school.  But  although  he  multiplied 
the  resolutely  written  and  strongly  characterized  works, 
sometimes  he  did  not  disdain  to  seek  sweetness  and  melting 
tenderness,  like  one  who  is  fond  of  moaclling,  and  as  that 
species  of  impression  had  been  rendered  by  Correggio.  The 
painters  who  have  been  inspired  by  this  manner  have  been 
the  exception  ;  and  almost  all  of  these  have  taken  as  their 
starting  point  the  department  to  which  he  devoted  himself 
with  so  much  ardour  and  success — portrait-painting. 

Towards  the  close  of  his  life,  about  1787,  when  he  had 
passed  his  sixtieth  vear,  and  felt  a  lessening  of  the  generous 
enthusiasms  of  the  ripe  age,  he  received  from  Lord  William 
Gordon  the  request  to  paint  the  portrait  of  his  charming 
daughter,  Frances  Isabella,  who,  in  her  childish  freshness, 
had   an   adorable   face.      Reynolds   began   his  studies,  and, 


364  ANGELS'  HEADS 

finding  a  vaguely  angelic  character  in  his  youthful  model, 
whilst  still  remaining  faithful  to  the  English  type,  he  re- 
solved to  represent  the  amiable  child  as  an  angel.  All  that 
was  necessary  was  to  add  wings  and  to  preserve  what 
Nature  had  given, — the  charm  and  spontaneity  of  a  flower. 

From  the  fresh  face  of  Isabella  Gordon,  he  successively 
made  five  studies,  one  representing  the  little  girl  full  face, 
and  the  others  showing  her  in  profile  and  three-quarters 
full.  Having  thus  obtained  five  similar  heads,  for  they 
reproduced  the  same  type,  though  slightly  differing  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  altered  position  of  the  model  and  the 
direction  of  the  light,  he  added  a  portion  of  wing  here  and 
there,  and  introduced  appropriate  light  and  vaporous  clouds 
here  and  there,  and  gathered  these  heads  into  a  bouquet, 
like  an  angelical  group  worthy  of  figuring  in  an  Assumption^ 
and  to  mount  into  the  skies  in  the  train  of  the  triumphant 
Virgin.  The  combination  of  the  five  studies  forming  a 
picture,  he  sent  it  in  1787  to  the  exhibition  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  of  which  at  that  time  he  was  president.  The 
family,  enchanted  on  recognizing  the  little  Isabella  under  a 
disguise  that  made  a  celestial  being  of  her,  and  rendered 
happy  by  that  unexpected  promotion,  piously  preserved  this 
painting  by  the  master,  and,  in  1841,  Lady  William  Gordon 
had  the  generous  thought  of  presenting  it  to  the  National 
Gallery  in  London,  which  now  possesses  it,  and  exhibits  it 
under  glass  as  an  exceptional  work  by  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds. 

In  fact,  this  picture  gives  quite  an  exceptional  view  of 
the  incomparable  suppleness  of  the  artist  whom  people  are 


ANCiELM      HEADS. 


ANGELS'  HEADS  365 

accustomed  to  praise  for  his  strong  and  sure  hand  and  his 
robust  and  proud  laying  on  of  paint.  In  this  picture,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  recognize  the  painter  of  the  vigorous 
picture  in  the  "  Hermitage  "  at  St.  Petersburg,  Hercules  in 
his  Cradle  Strangling  the  Serpents  in  which  we  admire  such 
generous  virtuosity  and  pigment.  This  composition,  that 
is  almost  a  phantasmagoria  by  reason  of  its  strong  and 
almost  exaggerated  lights,  was  exhibited  in  1788,  and 
might  be  regarded  as  the  type  of  Reynolds's  manner  in  the 
last  period  of  his  life.  In  the  AngeW  Heads^  the  artist  has 
transformed  himself:  it  is  an  entirely  different  language. 
The  youthful  Isabella,  with  her  divine  smile  and  her 
celestial  purity,  has  converted  the  aged  painter  and  inspired 
him  with  a  veritable  passion  for  sweetness.  Reynolds 
painted  children  very  well,  and  the  world  is  right  in  admir- 
ing the  little  princess  Sophia  Matilda  rolling  upon  the  grass 
with  a  gr)'phon.  The  Robinetta  of  the  National  Gallery  is 
also  praised  as  a  charming  image  of  infantile  life.  But  in 
the  AngeW  Heads^  Reynolds  no  longer  thinks  of  imitating 
the  Old  Masters;  he  is  entirely  under  the  influence  of  the 
artists  of  his  own  time,  and  the  good  workers  of  the  reign 
of  Louis  XVI.,  who,  like  Fragonard  in  his  lively  sketches, 
sought  lightness  of  touch  above  everything  else.  There  is 
no  insistence  on  arriving  at  characterization  of  a  type,  that 
however  remains  essentially  English,  no  heavy  pigment  nor 
useless  layers,  but  everywhere  a  flowery  freshness  and 
spontaneous  suavity  in  this  picture  that  seems  to  be  com- 
posed only  of  the  delicate  petals  of  a  flower.  It  is  not  at 
all   necessary,  in   fact   it   is  almost  always  annoying  for  the 


366"^  ANGELS'  HEADS 

laboured  execution  of  a  painting  to  give  us  an  idea  to  dif- 
ficulty, and  to  make  us  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
agony  a  painter  may  have  experienced  in  his  work.  The 
AngeW  Heads  with  their  light  touch  are  the  very  opposite 
of  a  laboured  work.  Reynolds,  that  magician  of  the 
brush,  has  forgotten  the  martyrdom  of  painting.  In  this 
-^nvas,  he  seems  to  teach  his  pupils  that  supreme  happi- 
:.:..?  consists  in  the  free  expression  of  form,  and  in  easily 
translating  expression  and  colour.  In  this  extraordinary 
picture,  so  profoundly  English,  Reynolds  shows  the  tran- 
quil joy  and  victorious  serenity  of  a  Rubens. 

And  since  people  have  a  sad  tendency  to  forget  dates, 
those  golden  nails  that  History  uses  to  fix  her  materials,  let 
us  remember  that  the  great  artist  whose  vital  intelligence 
we  know  by  his  pictures  as  well  as  by  his  writings,  and 
notably  by  the  fine  lectures  he  gave  at  the  Royal  Academy, 
was  born  July  i6th,  1723,  at  Plympton  in  Devonshire, 
that  he  studied  for  two  years  under  Hudson,  whose  por- 
traits were  highly  esteemed,  and  that  he  died  in  London, 
Feb.  23d,  1793. 


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SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

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